Casper Daily Tribune Newspaper, May 4, 1917, Page 3

S g = CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY “AUTHOR ef “THE CHALICE OF COURAGE” “THE ISLAND OF REGENERATION” ETC, AND CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY IR. CIVIL. ENGINEER. SYNOPSIS. CHAPTER I—Bertram Meade ‘s. con- * engineer representing his father, t Meade, who is the desiguer of atonal bridge, the Kreatest can- ae ever heard the shadow of the uncompleted » young Meade receives Colonel Ill- , president of the Martlet Bridge the constructors, and the colon- ter, Helen, whom he loves, CHAPTER II—At dinner the possible weakness of the compression menibers of the bridge is talked of and Meade defends Lis father’s calculations, CHAPTER II—Meade and Helen go out vpon the bridge in the moonlight and Helen narrowly e pes a fall to the river | € Meade tells his love and they go to the colonel, who approves their mar- riage when the bridge is finished CHAPTER IV—Abbott, the construction engineer, tells Meade there is a deflection in member C-10-R, -but makes light of it Meade, after yainly trying to stop tle work, wires his father and follows the telegram to New York. re the Inter Ulever structure the world In mpany, els daugh CHAPTER V—At the great engineer’ office father and son try to prevent di aster, but young Meade only reaches Col- enel Illingworth as a message comes that | the bridge, with 160 men, is in the «iver. CHAPTER VI—Abbott goes on with the work, fgnoring Meade’s protests, but while uneasily Inspecting 0-R the lacings snap under his eyes and he goes into eter- nity with the other men on the falling ndge. CHAPTER VIl—Young Meade has pointed out to his father the possible weakness, but his objections have been overruled His father now prepares a rlatement showing his own fault and rends his secretary, Shurtliff, to the Ga- zette with it. fe) CHAPTER VIII—Young Meade, on his return, meets Rodney, an old college friend, and other reporters at the door of | Nis father's office. “He finds his father dead from heart failure. He assumes en- ure responsibility for the catastrophe. Shurtliff, who has not obeyed orders, but concealed the papers the dead man had wiven him to make public, also accuser ihe younger Meade, But she had not the power over the older man that she had over the young- er. The secretary forced himself to look ot her. He cared nothing for Miss L- Ungworth, but he had a passion for | the older Meade.that matched hers for the younger. i “He has told the truth,” he cried al- | most like a baited animal. “No one is going to ruin the reputation of the ian I have served and to whom I have given my life without protest from me. It’s his fault, his, his, his!” he erled, bis voice rising with every repetition of the pronoun as he pointed at Meade. Helen Iilingworth turned to her lover again. She was quieter now. “I know that neither of you is telling ithe truth,” she said. “Lying for a great cause, lying in splendid self-sac- rifice. You are ruining yourself for your father’s name and he {fs abetting. Why? It can't make any difference to him now. But it makes a great differ- ence to. me. Huve you thought of that? I'm going to marry you anyway. Only | tell me the truth, Bert. By our love I ask you. If you want me to keep your secret I'll do it. But if you won't tell me I'll get that evidence will find out the truth, and then J shail publish it to the whole world and then—” “And you would marry me then?” asked Meade, swept away by this pro- found pleading. “I will marry you now, instantly, at | any time,” answered the girl. “Indeed you need me. Guilty or innocent, I am yours und you are mine.” “Listen,” protested the engineer, | “nothing will ever relieve me of the | blame, of the shame, of the disgrace of this, But Iam a man. 1 have youth still, and strength and inspiration. Un- til I can hold up my head among mep 7 am nothing to you and you are free.” There was a finality in his tone which the woman recognized. She “He Will Point Out Some Way—” could as well break it down as batter 4 stone wall with her naked fist. She looked at him a long time. “Very well," she said at last, “unless I shall be your wife I shall be the wife of no man. I shall walt confident in th® hope that there is a just God, and that he will point out some way.” H CHAPTER IX, The Unaccepted Renunciation. - The doctor and the officers_of the / | said at last. COPYRIGHT BY FLETING H. REVELL COMPANY luw entered the outer office. In spite of the brave words that had been spoken by the woman, the man could only see a long parting and an uncer- tain future, He realized it the more when old Colonel Ilingworth entered the room in the wake of the others, | After he had recovered himself he had hurried to the station in time to catch the next train and had come to New York, realizing at once where his| daughter must have gone. “My father is dead,” suid Meade as | the doctor and the officers of the law examined the body of the old man. The son had eyes for no one but the old colonel. “The failure of the bridge has broken his heart; my failure, I'd better say.” “I understand,” said Illingworth. “He | is fortunate. I would rather have died | than have seen any son of mine forced to confess criminal incompe- | | teney like yours.” “Father,” sald the girl with a reso- | lution and firmness singularly like his! own, “I can’t hear you speak this way, j and I will not.” “Do you go with him or do you not?" | thundered the colonel. It was Meade who answered for her, | “She goes with you. I love her and she loves me, but I won't drag her down In my ruin.” “Tam glad to see honor and decency | are In you still,” suid the colonel, “even | if you are incompetent?’ “If you say another word to him I will never go with you as long as T! live,” flashed out Helen Dlingworth., “] deserve all that he can say. Your duty Is with him, Good-by,” said | Meade. ‘ “And I shall see you again?” ‘ Now you must go with Helen Illingworth turned to the colo- | nel, | “I shall go with you because he bids | me, not because—" “Whatever the reason,” said the old soldier, “you go.” He paused a mo- | the quick and ready acknowledgment | a time, and his daughter saw fhat It said the young man, “but to be sure r| will examine his ivate papers at! home. Good night. You will be going | rself?” } few minutes, sir.” | “Come to me in the morning after | the autopsy and we will arrange for the funer: sald the younger man as he left the office. | Shurtliff waited until his footsteps died away in the hall. He waited un- til he heard the clang of the elevator gate. Even then he wv not sure. He | got up and in his catlike wa opened | the door of the office and peered down the hall. It was empty. He stood in the door waiting, wh the night ele- vator made several trips up and down | without pausing at that floor. He sat | down at the dead man’s de From his | pocket he drew forth a packet of pa-!} pers, . . . . * . . There were no legal procegdings, al- | though there we many inquests at! the bridge. The cause of the failure | was clear. It was recognized by every- one, whose opinion was worth consid- ering, that the disaster had resulted from a mistake which any engineer could have made. As a matter of fact there was no experience to guide the designers. There never had been such a bridge before. Certain elements of empiricism had to enter into their cal- culations, They had made the plan! after thelr best Judgment and ft had) failed. They could be blamed, even | vilified as they were in the press, but that was the extent of their punish- ment. The bitter weight of censure fell en- trely upe Bertram Meade. His ruin a8 an eng.neer was immediate and ab- solute. He was the scapegoat. No one | had any good to say of him except Rod- ney, who fought valiantly for his friend and classmate, at least striving to mitigate the censure by pointing out of the error which might have been | ascribed to the dead man without fear of contradiction. } An effort was made by competitors and stock speculators to ruin the Murt- let Bridge company. By throwing into the gap their private fortunes to the} last dollar and by hereulean work on | the part of their friends, the directors | saved the Martlet company, although insupportable, not only in money, but in prestige and reputation. older and grayer than ever. The terrific combat had left him almost broken for wus not possible even to merftion Bert- ram Meade to him, then. its losses were tremendous and almost H Colonel | | Ilingworth came out of the struggle “l Want to Stay Here a Little While by Myself.” “I reit your presence.” “Liste: said the woman, “You are wrecking your Hfe for your father's fame. A man hes o right perhaps to do with his own life what he will, but, when he loves a woman and when he has told her se and she has given him her heart, did it ever occur to you thet when he wrecks his life he wrecks hers, and has he a right to wreck her life for anyone b st? “Oh, my God. id Meade, “this is more than I can bear.” “T don't want to force you to do any- thing you don’t want to do and you are not in any mood te discuss these thing: she said in quick compassion, “Some day you will come back to me.” He stretched out his hands toward her over the grave. ise “I don’t know,” he cried. “I dare not hope.” “With lov’ like ours,” she answered, “all things are possible. “I can't bind you, You must be free,” he suid slowly, turning his head. “You are breaking my heart, but 1 shall live and fight on for love and you.” Giod bless you.” “You are going away?” she asked at last. “IT must break with everything. 1 must give you your chance of free- dom.” “Very well,” said the woman. “Now hear me. The funeral of the great engineer ment, looking from the dead man to! the living one. “Meade,” he exclaimed at last, “I am sorry for your father, I ain sorry for you. Good-by, and I never want to see you or hear of you again. Come, Helen.” ‘The wontan stretched out her hand had been strictly private. Only his confreres, men who stood high tn scientific circles, certain people for whom he had made great and success- ful designs, a few others whose ties | were personal, had been invited to the house for the services. The interment } toward her lover as her father took} was in the little Connecticut town of her by the arm. Meade looked at her @| Milford, in which the older Meade had moment and then turned away delib-| peen born, and from which he had gone erntely as if to mark the final sever | forth as a boy to conquer the world. ance, With bent head and beating heaft, she followed her futher out of the room. There he had to fight off the! fowers and the workmen had gone, “I) reporters. He denied that his daugh-! have left everything I possess in your | ter was going to marry young Meade. | She strove to speak and he strove to force her to be quiet. In the end she had her way. “At Mr. Meade’s own request,” she | said finally, “our engagement hus been | broken off. Personally I consider my- | self as much bound as ever, bat ip deference to his wishes and to my fa- | ther’s—” | “Have you sald enough?” roared the | colonel, losing all control of himself at | last. “No, 1 will not be questioned or | Interrupted another minute. Come.” He almost dragged the girl from the | room. Within the private office the phy- sicinn said that everything pointed to a heart lesion, but only an autopsy would absolutely determine it. Meanwhile the luw would have to take charge of the body temporarily. It was lute at night before Bertram Meade und old Shurt-/ liff were left alone. Carefully seeing that no one was present in the suite | of offices Meade turned to Shurtliff. “Get me that memorandum I wrote to iny father. You know where he kept} It.” = "Yes, sir, separate from the other papers concerning the International, in the third compartment.” He turned the big safe* door slowly. The third compartment was empty. “It's gone,” | he said. | Meade went to the safe, a small one, and examined it carefully and fruitless- ly. His letter was not there with the | other papers, where it should have} been if it were in existence. It was not anywhere. “Father told me he was going to de- stroy it, but I rather thought he wus keeping it to nave some fun with me when the bridge was completed,” he | “Yes, sir, that was his intention. In fact, I know he did not destroy it at} first. He told me to file it with the plans. He must have destroyed. it later. I haven't looked in this com- partment for weeks.” “T'll never forget the He you told to back me up, Shurtliff. I can see you loved him as much as L.” “No one will ever know the truth from me, sir. You saved your father's name and fame.” “I think we had better search the office now. I wouldn’t have that paper ome to life for the world,” said Meade, Shurtliff was the most orderly of | ther’s estate, “Shurtiiff,” said the young engineer, after the mound had been heaped up and covered with sods and strewn with charge. You have a power of attor- ney to receive and pay out all moneys to deposit, invest, ahd carry on my fa The office is to be closed | and the house is to be sold. My will, in which 1 lenve everything to Miss I- | lingworth, is in your hands. You are empowered to draw from the revenue of the estate your present salary so long as you live. If anything happens to me you will have the will probated and be governed accordingly.” “Mr. Meade.” said the (id man, and he somehow found himself transferring | the affection which he had thought had been buried beneath the sod on that long mound before him, to the younger | man. He had loved and served 4 Mende all his life and he began to see that he could not stop now, nor could} he lavish what he had to give merely | on # remembrance, “Mr. Mende,” he! said, “where are you going and what do you intend to do?” | “I don't know where I shall go, or | what I shall undertake eventually,” suid the man. “I’m going to leave everything behind pow and try to get a little rest at first.” | “And you will keep me advised of | your whereabouts?” “Perhaps—I don’t know. One last injunction: you are not to tell anyone the truth. | “God forbid,” said Shurtliff, “we | have lied to preserve the honor and | fame of him we loved who lies here.” “Don't render our perjnries of non effect.” “I will not, sir, I haven't found that paper. I guess it was destroyed.” “I presume so. And now, good-by.” “Aren't you coming with me?” “I want to stay here a little while by myself.” Shurtliff turned and walked away. When he reached the road, down which he must go, he stopped and faced about again, Meade was standing where he had been. The old»man took off his hat In reverent farewell. Meade was not left alone. Beyond the hillside where his father had been buried rose a clump of trees. Bushes grew at their feet. A woman—should man be buried without woman's tears? had stood concealed there waiting. Helen Dllingworth had wept over the dreariness, the mournfulness of it all She had hoped that Meade might stay after the other went and now that ‘he was alone she came to him, She Inid | | ~ of primeval floods through th earth or hide yourself away so cun- ningly but that I can find you and maybe follow you. And I will. Now, I must go. I left my car down the rond yonder. Will you go with me?" The man shook his head and knelt down before her suddenly and caught her skirt In his grasp. His arms swept around her knees. She yielded one hand to the pressure of his ips and Maid the other upon his head. “Go now,” he whispered, “for God's sake. If I look at you I must follow.” CHAPTER X. The New Rodman. + There are no more beautiful valleys upnywhere than those cut by the waters } pothills | of the great snow-covered Rocky moun tains. The erosions and washings otf | untold centuries have flung out in front of the granite ramparts of snecession ot lower elevations like th | stions ot at fort . At first scurcely to oe dis tinguished from the imuin range in} height and ruggedness these cayelins | and escarpments gradually decreuse in altitude and size until they turn a series of more or lisconnectes into softly rounded hi ike ours earthworks, finally merging theniset by gradual slopes inte the «ist plains overlooked by the great peaks of the mountains. The monotony of these pine-clad, wind-swept slopes is broken even in the low hills by out-thrustings of stone, sometimes the hard Igneous rock, the granite of the mountains, more fre- quently the softer red sandstone of a period liter, yet ineffably old. These cliffs, buttes, Hills and mesas have been weathered into strange and fan- scape und add charm to the country. The narrow canons in which the snow-hed streams take their rise grad- ually widen as the water follows its tortudus course down the mountains through the subsiding ranges and out among the foothills to the sandy, arid, windy plains beyond. At the entrance of one of the loveliest of these broad and verdant valleys, a short dis above its confluence with a narrower, more rugged ravine through the hills, Jay the thriving little town of Coro- nado. Some twenty miles back from the town at a place where the valley was narrowed to a quarter of a mile, and separating it from the puralleling ra- vine, rose a huge sandstone rock called Spanish Mesn. Its top, some hundreds of feet higher than the tree-clad base of the hills, was mainly level. From its high elevation the country could be seen for many miles, mountains on one hand, plains on the other. “It stood like an island in 2 sea of verdure, Lit- tle spurs and ridges rar from :t. To- ward the range tt descended and con- tracted into a narrow saddle, yulgarly known as a “hog-back,” where the granite of the mountains was hidden under a deep covering of grass-grown earth, which formed the onl: division between tic valley and the gorge or men. The care of the old engineer's! per and upon his arm. He turned und | Tavine, before the land, widening, rose papers and other arrangements had de- volved upon him. The search was svon completed. “I * have destroyed it,” looked at her. “I knew that you would be here,” he said. = “Did you see me?” into the next hill. You can’t go so far on this great pearance than. Baldwin's knob, the Inst foothill below it. Transcontinental travelers even broke 7 visit | it. The town prospe aecomlingty, | as it of 4 sp what especially as a plac plorers, was udimtrably situated rture for hunters, ex- adventurer: craved in ' rs aud they P who sought wild hills, There were one or two hotels for tourists, unnsually exte general of the bette where hunting and prospect stores r class, | parties | could be outfitted, and the high-living | extravugant cattle ranchers could get / what they demanded. Besides all these there were the modest homes of the lovers of the rough but exhilarating and health-giving life of the Rocky mountains. Of course there were nu- merous saloons and gambling dualls, and the town was the haunt of cow- boys, hunters, miners, Indians—the old frontier with a few touches of civiliza- tion added! What was left of the river, which had made the valle nd during the; infrequent periods of rain too brief to be known as the rainy son, it really lived up to the nume of river—fiowed merrily through the town, when it flowed at all, under the nime of Picket Wire. When the rallroad cume the Picket Wire had been first studied in, the hope of finding a practicable way! over the mountains, but the ravine on | the other side of the mesa had been found to offer a shorter and more prac- | ticable route. And, by the way this | ravine, taking Its name from the little) brook far down fn its narrows was | known us the “Kicking Horse.” So the railrond ran up the ravine! and the Picket Wire was left still vir- in to the assaults of man. But the day carne when it was despoiled of its hitherto long standing, unravished In- nocence. Shouts of men, cracking of whips trampling of horses, groaning of wheels, wordless but vocal protests of beasts of burden mingled with the ringing of axes, the detonutions of dy- namite. The whistle of engines and the roar of steam filled the valley, Un- der the direction of engineers, a huge | mound o1 earth srose across its nar- rowest part, neurest a shoulder, or spur, of the mesn reaching westward. | No muvre should the silver Picket Wire | flow unvexed on its way to the sea. It was to be dammed. | All that the huge, hot inferno of ; baked plain, whe sage brush and} buffelo grass al grow, needed to make tt burgeon with wheat and corn! was water. The little Picket Wire, which had meandered and sparkled | and chattered on at its own sweet will was now to be held until it filled aj) lakelike reservoir In the hills! back of the new earth diam. ‘Then | through «skillfully located irrigation | ditches the water was to be given to} the millions of hungry little wheatlets | and cornlets which would clamor for a drink. The fierce sun was no longer to work its unthwarted will in burning up the irte. i With the promise of water on the | plain bey Coronado sprang into newer and more vigorous life. In the | language of the West It “boomed.” ‘The | rallroad had been a forlorn branch running up into the mountains and ending nowhere, Its first builders Ind | 1 nted by diffleutties Incl ! ey. but as soon as the great dam was nd, whic! eral hundred thousund acres for culti- vation and serve as an inspiration in | would open sey- | its practical results to other similar attempts, people came swarming inte | the couutry buylag up the land the price for acreage steadily mounting, The railroad ceordingly found. it} worth while to take up the long-aban doned nstruction work of mounting the range and crossing it. Men sud- denly observed that it was the short est distance between two cardinal points, und one of the great transecon- tinental ¢ = boughe it and begun | uuproving if to replace its original ather unsatisfactory Hine. | The long weoden trestle which | crossed the broud, sandy depression in front of the town, the bed of the an- | pe | tastic shapes which diversify the land- | steel cient river, through which the Picket Wire and further down its affluent, the | Kicking -Horse, flowed humbly and | modestly, was being do oby a greut viuduct of steel. r up the gorge just the other side of the Span- ish Mesa another higher trestle had al- ready been replaced by a splendid arch. A siding had been built near the ravine, a path made to the foot of the mesa, and arrangements were being mide to run a local train | up from the town when all was com- | pleted to give the people an oppor- tunity to ride up the gorge and see the great pile of reck, on which enterprise was ulready planning the desecration of a summer hotel, the blasphemy of an amusement purk! Up the valley of the Picket Wire one morning in ly fall came a young man roughly dressed like the aver 1 t cow-puncher from the ranches further! th. He rode well, yet with a cer- tain attention to detail and a niceness | that betrayed him to the real rough-| rider of the range, just as the clothes | he wore, although they were the or dinary cattleman’s outfit, were worn In a little diffewent way that aguin be- trayed him. One look into the face of the man, albeit his mustache and beard hid the revealing outlines of mouth and chin, sufficed to show that here! was no ordinary cow-puncher. He rode boldly enongh among the rocks of the trail and along the rough road, which had been made by the wheels of the wagons and hoofs of the horses, There was about him some of the quiet con- fidence begot of achievement, some ot the power which knowledge brings and which success emphasizes, yet there were uncertainty and hesitation, too, | as if all had not been plain Sailing on | The people came from miles away] his course. to see that interesting and curious mesa, mach more striking in its ap- y To be the resident engineer charged ith the construction of @ grent earth | | approval. } Ing. | sight « A Young Man Roughly Dressed dam like that across the PTeket Wire, requires knowledge of a great many things beside the technicalities of the profession, chi¢f among them being « knowledge of men. As the newcomer threw his leg over the saddle-horn, stepped lightly to the ground, drop- ping the reins of his pony to the soil at the same time, Vandeventer, the ea- gineer In question, looked at him witr Some subtle recognition of the man’s quality came inte his mind Here was one who seemed distinctly wort) while, one who stood out above the ordinary applicant for jobs whe came in contact with Vandeventer, a4 the big mesa rose above the foothill. However, the chief kept these things to himself as he stood looking and walting for the other man to begin: “Are you .he resident engineer?” asked the newcomer quietly, yet there was a certain nervous note in his voice, which the alert and observant engineer found himself wondering at, such a strain a. might come when a man Is | about to entei upon a course of action, | to take a strange or perilous step, such a little shiver In bir speech as a naked man might feel in his body before he plunged into the jiey waters of the wintry sea, “ “T am.” e = “Td like a job." xu We have no use. for eow-ponchers on this dam.” “Tm not exactly a caw-puneher, str.” “What are you?” “Look here,” said the man, smiling a little, “I've been out In this country long enongh to learn that at) that it is necessary to know about a man is ‘Will he make good? Let us say that Iam nothing and let it go at that,” “Out of nothing, nothing eomes? laughed the — engineer, t genuinely amused, ; Some men would’ have been ungry, but Vandeventer rather enjoyed this. “T didn't say I was good for noth " auswered the other mao, smiling in turn, though be was evidently sert- ous ngh in his application, Well, what ean you do?) Are you an engineer? “We'll pass over the hist question, too, if you pleas 1 think | could carry a rod jf J bad a chanee and there was a vacuney.” “Umph” said think you could?” “Yes, sir. Give me a triat.” “All right, take that rod ove and go ont on the edge of 42 where that stake shows, and TH Vandeven “you Now there are two ways—a ‘hi perhaps—of holding a rod; o: way and all theothers wrong. A new comer invariably grasps it tightly in nis fist and jams it down, conceiving that the only way to get it p hold it steady. The expe strives to balance it erect on its ow Dase and holds it with the tips of I fingers on eith side in an vpright y sition, swaying it very slightly ba_ ward and forward. He does it uncon- ~ selously, too. nter had been standing by « ie already set up when the new- comer urrived und the rod was tying on the ground beside it, The Satter picked it up without a word, walked ' rapidly to the stake, loosened the tar get, and balanced the red upon the stuke. As soon as Vandeventer ob- served that his new seeker after work held the rod in the right way, be did not trouble to take the sight. He threw his head backward and raised his hand, beckoningly. “It so "he began, “that 1 can give ) The wn next fu line of promotion bas been given the level. One of the mep went Wast last night. You can have the job, which is—" “T don't care anything about the de- tails,” said the man quickly and gladly. “It's the work J want.” “Well, youll’ get what the rest do,” sald Vandeventer. “Now, as you just- ly remarked, 1 have found that ft 1s not polite out here to inquire too close- ly into a man's antecedents mul T have learned to respect loca) ebstonis,-but—— ——-~ we lust bave some name by -which tu identify you, make out your-:pay check, and—" “Do you pay In ehecks?” “No, bat you have to sign a eheck.” “Well, cali me Smith.” Vandeventer threw boeck ‘his head and loughed, The other man‘trnedia little red. The chief engineer observed the glint in his new friend's eye. “Pm not exactly laughir you,” te explained, “but af the singular lack df inventiveness of the Amesican. We have at least thirty Smiths out of two hundred men on our pay voll, and it is a bit confusing. Would you mind se lectiog gome other mame?” , (Continued ‘Tomprrow)