Evening Star Newspaper, October 9, 1921, Page 63

T 9 OCLOCK this moming Sberiff Crumpett entered our New England town pogt office bt for hip mall. From his box he axtracted a letter in a long ¥yellow kmnvelope that bore the return-stamp of a prominent Boston lumber com- pany. The old man hooked black- rimmed glasses on a big nose and tore a generous inch from the end of the envelope. The first inclosure which met his ®yes was a check. Impressed into the fabric of the safety-paper were the Sndelible figures of a protector: Not Dver five thousand ($5,000) dollars. The sheriff read the name of the Person to.whom it was payable and Sulped. His gnarled old hand trem- bled with excitement as he read the sccompanying letter: November 10, 1919. My Dear Sheriff: Enclosed please find my personal check for five thou- and dollars. It is made out to Mrs. I am sending It to you for [cBride. 1 feel, from your en- proper delivery. thusiastic account of her recent ex- perience, that it will give you pleas- ure to present it to her. Under the circumstances I _do mnot ‘begrudge the money. When first ad- vised of Ruggam's escape, it was hot- headed impulse which prompted me to offer a reward so large. The old clan- blood of the Wileys must have made sme murder-mad that Ruggam should regain his freedom permanently after the hellish thing he did to my brother. If this money is going to a woman to whom it will be manna from en—to use your words—I am sat~ isfied. Convey to her my personal congratulations, gratitude and Dest es. Cordially yours, s C. V. D. WILEY. “Good old Chris!” muttered the “He's rich because he's He thrust both check and Jetter back into the long envelope and headed for the local livery-stable. He ordered a rig in which he might arive at once to the McBride house in the northern part of town. * ok kX rrwo weeks ago—on Monday, the twenty-seventh of the past Octo- Per—the telephone-bell rang sharply in our newspaper-office a few mo- fments before the paper went to press. The connection was made, and over fhe wire came the voice of young Btewart, crisp as lettuce: “Special dispatch * * * Wyndgate, Wermont, October 27 ¢ ¢ * Ready?” Stewart proceeded: “Hapwell Ruggam, serving a life- Bentence for the murder of Deputy Bheriff Martin Wiley at a Lost Nation Xkitchen-dance two years ago, killed Jacob Lambwell, his guard, and es- caped from prison at noon today. “Ruggam had been given some re- yair work to do near the outer prison @ate. It was opened to admit a tradesman’s automobile. As Guard ZLambwell turned to close the gate, Ruggam felled him with his shovel escaped to the adjacent railroad- yards, stole a corduroy coat and pair of blue overalls hanging in a switch- man’s shanty and caught the twelve- Forty freight up Green River. “‘Frelght No. 8 was stopped by ftelegraph near Norwall. The fugi- tive, assuming correctly that it was mlowing down for search, was seen by ® brakeman fleelng across a pasture between the tracks and the eastern edge of Haystack mountain. Several posses have already started after him and sheriffs through northern New Eng- land are being notified. “‘Christopher Wiley, lumber mag- mate and brother of Ruggam’s for- smer victim, has offered a reward of $5,000 for Ruggam's capture, dead or mlive. Guard Lambwell was removed to & hospital, where he died at 1:30." . - All right?” ‘When ‘the big Duplex was grind- ing out newsprint with a roar that shook the building the boys and girls gathered around to discuss the thing ‘which had happened. “Ruggam,” the editor explained, =& poor unfortunate, who should ha ‘been sent to an asylum instead of ti Denitentiary. He killed Mart Wiley, deputy sheriff, at a Lost Nation ;“eh.n dance two years ago.” *“Where’s the Lost Nation?” “It's a term applied to most of the fown of Partridgeville in the north- Eern part of the county—an inacce sible district back in the mountains eopled with gone-to-geed stock and alf-civilized illiterates. Ruggam was e local blacksmith. “Whi a kitchen dance?” “Ordinarily a kitchen dance less enough. But the it ftion folks use it as an excuse for a debauch. They gather in some sizable Bhack, set the stove out into the yard, posk themselves in aromatic spirits f deviltry, and dance from Saturday ht until Monday noon——' ‘And this Ruggam killed a sheriff &t one of them?” *He got into & brawl with another fif. Some one passing saw the fight sent for an officer. Mart Wiley was deputy, afraid of neither man, nor devil. Hap Ruggam must ave had help, because he first got tied to & tree In the yard. Then JRuggam caught up a billet of wood Ang—and kill that” ed him with ro THE FACE IN THE WINDOW By WILLIAM DUDLEY PELLEY Ilustrated by Norman Anthony. 5 F A Young Wife—An Invalid Husband—The Need of Moncy—An Escaped Convict—The Offered - Reward—Then Thrills and Thrills in Masterly Style. “Why didn’t they electrocute him?" demanded young Higgins. & “Well, the murder wasn't exsctl premeditated. FHap wasp't himself; he wgs drunk—not even able to run away when Sheriff Crumpett took him into custody. Then thers was Hap's bringing up. All these made extenuating circumstances.” “There was something about Sheriff Wiley’s pompadour,” suggested our little lady proofreader. “Yes,” returned the editor. ‘Mart had a queer head of hair. It was dark and stiff, and he brushed it straight back in a pompadour. When he was angry or excited it actually rose on his scalp like wire. Hap's counsel made a great fuss over Mart’'s pompa- dour and the part it played in egging Hap on. The sight of it, stiffening and rising the way it did, maddened Ruggam so that he beat it down hysterically. It was all right to make the sentence life-imprisonment, only former place beside the table, and there, with her face in her hands, she ared into endless distance. * K k¥ FN! thousand dollars! be performed to gain that wealth. stop at nothing again. And yet—five thousand dollars! lenge to her courage. SHE TRIED TO STRUGGLE LOOSE, BUT HE HELD HER MERCILESSLY. SUDDENLY HER EYES RIVETED ON THAT CURTAINLESS WINDOW AND SHE UTTERED A TERRIFYING CRY. it should have been in an asylum. Hap's not right.” * Kk Kk X BY 8 o'clock that evening most of the valley’s deer hunters, all of the local adventurers and the usual quota of high-school sons of thought- less parents were off on the man- hunt in the eastern mountains. On reaching the timber-line they separated. It was agreed that if any of them found signs of Ruggam the signal for assistance was five shots in quick succession “and keep shoot- ing at intervals until the rest come up. In the northern part of our town, a mile out on the Wickford road, is the McBride place. It is a small white house with a red barn in the rear and a neat rail fence inclosing the whole. Six years ago Cora McBride was bookkeeper in the local garage. Her maiden name was Allen. The town called her “Tom-boy Allen.” She was the only daughter of old Zeb Allen, for many years our county game- warden. Cora, as we had always known her, was a full-blown, red- childhood and much of her terrible; knew how terrible. Cora McBride took the kitchen lamp and went upstairs. Lifting the top of a leather trunk, she found her husband's revolver. With it was a belt and holster, the former filled with cartridges. In the storeroom over the back kitchen she unhooked Duncan’s mackinaw and found her own toboggan-cap. From a corner behind some fishing rods she salvaged a pair of summer-dried snowshoes She searched until she found the old army haversack Duncan used as a game-bag. Its shoulder straps were broken, but a length of rope sufficed to bind it about her shoulders after she had filled it with provisions. With this equipment she returned below stairs. She drew on heavy woollen stockings and buckled on arctics. She entered the cold pantry and packed the knapsack with what supplies she could find at the hour. She did not forget a drinking cup. a hunting knife or matches. In her blouse she slipped a household flash lamp. From the kitchen she called softly blooded, athletic girl who often drove cars for her employer. Duncan McBride was chief me- chanic in the garage repair shop. He was an affable, sober, steady chap, popularly known as “Dunk the Daunt- less. ‘When he married his em- ployer's bookkeeper Duncan and the Allen girl motored to Washington in 2 demonstration car. On their return they bought the Johnson place and Cora quickly demonstrated the same furious enthusiasm for home-making and motherhood that she had for ath- letics and carburetors. Three years passed, and two small boys crept about the yard behind the white rail fence. Then—when Duncan and his wife were “making a great go of matrimony” in typical Yankee fashion—came the tragedy. In the in- fantile-paralysis epidemic the Mec- Brides suffered the supreme sorrow— twice. Those small boys died within two weeks of each other. Troubl never come singly. One afternoon this past August Duncan completed repairs on Doc Potters runabout. When he cranked the ma- chine to run it from the workshop the “dog” on the safety clutch failed to_hold. Duncan was taken to our memorial hospital with internal injuries and dislocation of his spine. mained there many week! In fact, he had been home only a couple of days when the evening stage left in the McBride letter box the daily paper containing the story of Ruggam's “break” and the reward offered for his capture. Cora returned to the kitchen after obtaining the paper and sank wearily into a wooden chair beside the tabl: As the headlines caught her eye she picked up the paper and entered the bedroom where Duncan lay. It was becoming rumored about the vil- lage that Dunk the Dauntless might never operate on the vitals of an alling tin Lizzie again. “Dunnle,” cried his wife, “Hap Rug- gam's escaped! Sinking down be- side the bedroom lamp, she read him the article aloud. Her husband’s name was mentioned therein; for when the sheriff had commandeered an automobile from the local garage to convey him and his‘posse to secure Ruggam, Duncan had presided at the steering wheel He had thus assisted in the capture mdLanr had been a witness at the trial ¥ The reading ended, the man rolled his_head. “If I wasn't held here I might go! he said. might try for that five thousand myself! *We caught him over on the Pur- cell farm,” mused incan. ‘“‘Something ailed Ruggam. He kept shrieking something about a head of hair—black hair—sticks up like wire. He must have had an_awful impression of Mart's face and that hair of his.’ “I remember about Aunt Mary Crumpett’s telling me of the trouble her husband had with his prisoner before the trial,” his wife replied. “He had those crasy spells often, nights. He kept yelling that he saw Martin ‘Wiley’s head with its peculiar hair, and his face peering in at him through the cell window. “Five thousand dollars!” muttered Duncan. “Gawd. I'd hunt the devil for nothing if I only had a chance of getting out of this bed.” Cora smoothed her husband's rum- led bed and comforted him. When he ad dosed off she arose and left the om. In' the kitchen she resumed hex He re-| to her husband. He did not answer. gle was asleep. She must not waken im. She blew out the kerosene lamp, and went out through the shed door, closing it softly behind her. An hour later found her far to the eastward, following an old side road that led up to the Harrison lumber- job. She had meantime paid Dave Sheldon, a neighbor's boy, encount- ered by his gate, to stay with Duncan during her absence, which she ex- plained with a white le. & She knew the woods. Intuitively she felt that if Ruggam was on Haystack mountain making his way toward Lost Nation he would strike for the shacks of the Green Mountain Club or the deserted loj g camps along the trail, for he had no food, and provi- sfons were often left in these struc- tures by hunters and mountain hik- ers. She would investigate each group of buildings. She had the advantage of starting on the northwest side of Haystack. She would be working to- ward Ruggam, while the rest of the posses were trailing him. She decided it must be midnight when she reached the ghostly_build- ings of the Harrison tract. It was useless to gearch these cabins. If Rug- gam had left the freight at Norwall on the eastern side of Haystack at noon he had thirty miles to travel be- fore reaching the abandoned quiet of the clearing. * The hours of the night piled up. The silent, muffling snowfall contin- ued. And Cora McBride began to sense an alarming weariness. It final- ly dawned upon her that her old- time vigor was missing. The strength of youth was hers no longer. ‘The realization of her limitations ‘was accompanied by wild panic. She ‘was still many miles even from Blind Brook Cabin, and her limbs were afire from the unaccustomed effort. “Tom- boy Allen” had not counted on suc- cumbing to physical fatigue before she had climbed as far as Blind Brook. Tuesday, the 28th of October, passed with no tidings of Ruggam’s capture. The snowfall stopped in the early morning. Sunrise disclosed the world trimmed, from horizon to horizon in fairy fluff. The sun soared higher, and the day grew warmer. Eaves began dripping during the noon hour, to stop when the sun sank about 4 o'clock behind Bancroft's hill. After the sunset came a perfect evening. The starlight was magic. Some time between 9 o’'clock and midnight—she had no way of telling exactly—Cora McBride reached the Lyons clearing. For over an hour she had hobbled blindly. It was wholly by accident that she had stumbled into the clear- ing. And the capture of Ruggam had diminished in importance. Warm food, water that would not tear her raw throat, a place to lle and recoup |, her strength after the chilling winter night—these were the only - things that counted now. When a snag caught her snowshoe and tripped her there was hysteria in her cry of re- sentment. * % kX % As she moved across from the tim- ber line her hair was revealed fallen down; she had lost a glove, and one hand and wrist were cruelly red where she had plunged them several times into the snow to save herself from falling upon her face. She made but a few yards before the iy thong of her right snowshoe Like many others in the valley that night. she pictured what it would mean to Ppossess such a sum of money; but not once in her pitiful flight of fancy did she disregard the task which must It meant traveling upward in the great snowbound reaches of Vermont mountain country and tracking down a murderer who had killed a second time to gain his freedom and would At first it was only a faint chal- She had no fear of the great outdoors, for she had lived close to the mountains from old physical resiliency and youthful dare- deviltry remained. And the need was not even her own people snapped. Carrying the snowshoe be- neath her arm, she hol So she gained the walls of bulldings, thoughtless of any Possi- ble signs of the fugitive. The stars were out in myriads. The | m, of the clearing stood out sharply against the peculiar radf- ance of the snow. The night was as a8 the spaces between the log bulldin ‘still planets. door casing in pport; fumbled for the revolver. Tracks led into that cabin! A paralysis of fright gripped Cor: b e. McBride. She stood face to face af last with what she had traveled all e R this mountain wilderness to find. Yet with sinking heart it also came to her that if Hap Ruggam had made these tracks and were still within, she must face him in her exhausted condition and at once make that tor- tuous return trip to civilization. There‘would be no one to help her. She realized in that moment that ghe was facing the primal. And she was not primal. She was & normal woman, weakened to near-prostration by the trek of the past twenty-four hours. Was it not better to turn away while there was time? She stood debating thus, the eter- nal silence blanketing forest world and clearing. But she was allowe: to make no decision. A living body spr.nF suddenly upon her. Before she could cry out, she was borne down precipitously from ‘behind. She tried to turn the revolver against the thing upon her, but the gun was twisted from her raw, red fingers. The snow into which she had been precipitated blinded her. She smeared an arm across her eyes. but before clear sight was regained talon fingers had gripped her shoul- der. She was half lifted, half dragged through the doorway, and there she was dropped on the plank flooring. Her assailant, turning, made to close and bar the door. ‘When she could see clearly she perceived a weak illumination in the cabin. On the rough bench-table, shaded by two slabs of bark, burned the stub of a tallow candle probably left by séme hunting party. The windows were curtained with rotting biankets. Some rough furni- ture lay about; rusted cooking uten- sils littered the tables, and at one end was a sheet-iron stove. The place had been equipped after a fashion by deer-hunters or mountain hikers, wno brought additional furnishings to the place each year and left mouldy pro- ;:I'll:nl and unconsumed firewood be- nd. The man succeeded finally in clos- ing the door. He turned upon her. He was short and stocky. The stolen corduroy coat covered blacksmith's muscles now made doubly powerful by dementia. His hair was lifeless black and clipped close, prison-fash- jon. His low forehead hung over burning, mismated eyes. From her helplessness on the floor Cora Mc- Bride stared up at him. He came closer. , “Get up!” he ordered. ‘Take that chair. And don’t start no rough- house: whether you're & woman or not, I'll drill you!” She groped to the indicated chalr and raised herself, the single snow- shoe still dragging from one foot. Again the man surveyed her. She saw his eyes and gave another In- articulate cry. o “Shut your mouth and keep it shut! You hear me?” She obeyed. The greenish light burned brighter in his mismated eyes, which gazed in- tently at the top of her head as though it held something unearthly. “Take off your hat!” was his next command. She pulled off the toque. Her hair fell in a mass on her snow-blotched shoulders. Her captor advanced upon her. He reached out and satisfled himself by touch that something was not there which he dreaded. In hyp- notic fear she suffered that touch. It reassured him. ou're hair now,” he demanded it don’t stand up, does it? No, o' course it don’t. You ain’t him; you're a woman. But if your hair comes up, I'll kill you—understand? If your hair comes up, T'll kill you!” She understood only too well. She was housed with a maniac. And she ‘was alone with him, unarmed now. “T'll keep it down,” she whispered, ‘watching his face out of fear-distend- ed eyes. The wind blew one of the rotten blankets inward. Thereby she knew that the window aperture on the south ‘wall contained no sash. He must have removed it to provide means of escape case he were attacked from the east door. He must have climbed out that window when she came around the shack; that is how he had felled her from ind. * k kX STEPPED backward now until he felt the edge of the bench touch his calves. Then he sank down, one arm stretched along the table’ rim, the hand clutching the revolver. “Who are you?” he demanded. “T'm Cora McB——" She stopped— she recalled in a flash the part her husband had played in' his former capture and trial. ‘I'm Cora Allen,” bled brokenly toward the shelter of the buildings. The woman clumped and stumbled around the main shack, seeking the door. Finding it, she stopped; the snow- shoe slipped from beneath her arm; one numb hand groped for the log the other she corrected. Then she waited, her wits in chaos. “What you doin’ up here?” “I started for Millington, over the mountain. I lost my way.” you go by the road? o! It ain’t And don't Ue to me, or I'll kill you!” “Who are you?’ she heard herselt asking. “And why are you acting this ‘way with me?’ ‘The man leaned suddenly forward. “You mean to tell me you don’t ow “A lumberjack, maybe, who's lost his way like myself?”’ His expression changed abruptly. “What you luggin’ this for?” He indicated the revolver. “For protection.” “From what?”" “Wild things.' “There ain’'t no wild things in these mountains this time o' year; they're snowed up, and you know it.” T just felt r to have it alon; "T: Jrotect you from men folks, ybe?" ‘There are no men in these moun- tains I'm afraid of!” She made the declaration with pathetic bravado. His eyes narrowed. I think I better kill you,” he de- “You've seen me; you'll tell you seen me. Why ouldn’t I kill you? You'd only tel He sprang up with ing the revolver from his hip, a b the hammer. she shrieked. Are you crazy? Don't you know how to treat a woman—in distress?” ‘Distress, hell! You know who I And I don't care whether you're a woman or not, I ain't goin' to be took—you understand “Certainly I understand.” She said it in such a way that he eased the hammer back into place and lowered the gun. For the mo- ment again she was safe. In response to her_terrible need, some of her latent Yankee courage came now to aid her. “I don’t see what you're making all this rumpus about,” she told him in as indifferent a voice as she could command. “I don’t see why you should want to kill a friend who might help you—if you're really in need of help.” “I want to get to Partridgeville,” he muttered after a moment. “You're not far from there. How long have you been on the road?” ‘None of your business. Have you had any food 0. a snarl Point- he “If you'll put up that gun and let me get off this snowshoe and pack, I’IL share with you some of the food ave.” “Never you mind what I do with this gun. Go ahead and fix your foot, and let's see what you got for grub.” The man resumed his seat. She twisted up her tangled hair, replaced her toque and untled the dangling snowshoe. Outside a tree creaked in the frost. He started in hair-trigger fright. Creeping to the window, he peered cautiously between casing and blank- et. Convinced that it was nothing, he returned to his seat by the table. It's too bad we couldn't have a fire,” suggested the woman then. “I'd make us something hot.” The stove was there, rusted but still service- abl available wood was scattered around. But the man shook his bul- let head. After a trying time unfastening the frosted knots of the ropes that had bound the knapsack upon her back, she emptied it on the table. She kept her eve, however, on the gun. He had disposed of it by thrusting it into his belt. Plainly she would never recover it without a struggle. And she was in no contition for physical conflict. Y to anything I 're welcome ave.” she told him. “Little you got to say about it! It you hadn’t given it up. I'd took it IWI}:{ from you. So what's the differ- ence “You stay here in front where I éan see you. She obeyed, watching him make what poor meal he could from the contents of her bag. The silence was broken only by the noises of his lips as he ate ravenous- ly. Outside, not a thing stirred in that snow-bound world. Not a sound of civilization reached them. They ‘were a man and woman in the primal, in civilization and yet a million miles from it. “The candle’s going out,” she an- nounced. “Is there another?” “There’ll be light enough for what I got to do,” he growled. Despite her effort to appear indif- BY JAMES A. BUCHANAN. HE pathway of a diplomat's life is seldom, if ever, strewn witlt roses. It is a vocation, or profession, if you desire to 80 name it, which calls for the great- est combination of talents possible. Diplomats are born and not made, and while it is true that there have been striking exceptions now and then, one generally finds that the more successful representatives at foreign courts are men whose an- cestors either served at one time in the diplomatic corps or were prom- inent in political matters that affect- ed the country of their birth. Of course now and then there springs into prominence over night some man whose ancestors played but little part in the affairs of his country, but these cases are only a drop of water in the diplomatic sea, and still very often a close study of the family will show that some relative, either near or remote, was interested in national politics, if mot in international affairs. The popular conception of a diplo- mat is a well groomed, suave indi- vidual whose chief function im life appears to be present at official teas, dansantes or dinners—a man who rather much of a social butterfly. This conception is, however, errone- ous, for the average diplomat is a studious, hard-working person, and while it is true that he is always properly attired and is seen at func- tions of an official or semi-official nature, there are many hours when he is busily engaged in the material things that vitally interest the coun- try he represents. Not counting the diplomatic ques- tions of stellar magnitude, there are a thousand and one matters that come up each week that must receive his immediate attention. While ques- tions that affect the direct political relations between the countries are written about and occupy prominent positions in the news.of the day, there are many problems of a com- mercial nature that must be passed upon by the man who represents his country in Washington. The diplo- mat must not only be skilled in mat- ters of international law and the finer arts of diplomacy, but he must also have a most comprehensive grasp of commercial life. He must be able to mentally translate from dollars into francs, pesos, lire or pounds just what this, that or the other commercial phase will mean to his country. He must steer a course through the troubled waters of com- merce that will not only protect his own dountry but will please other nations with which the nation he rep- resents bas commercial relations. Should he give to the country in which he is stationed a decided com- mercial advantage, he at once of- fends the other nations of the world. He must get the viewpoint of the people where he “resides; he must measure it against the wishes of his people; he must smooth every .road so that the diplomatic chariot which he is driving will encounter no severe jolts on its journey to the goal of successful achievement. As one can readily see, the life of a diplomat is not a bed of roses, even if the country he represents is recog- jed as being not only a stable but a friendly government. When the na- tion is not recognised by the United States the task before the diplomat is one that calls for the gre: it amount of skill. Lack of official recognition is a most serious handicap. One of the most striking examples of what a young diplomat can accom. plish for his country, even when that nation’s present government has not been recognized, is that of Senor Don ferent, her great fear showed platnly in her eyes. . “Are we going to stay here all night?” she asked with a pathetioc at- tempt at lightnees. “That’s my busine: “Don’t you want me to help you? “You've helped me all you can with the gun and food.” “If you're going to Partridgevill Td go along and show you the way. He leaped up. “Now I know you been lyin'!" he bellowed. “You said you was headed for Millington. And you ain’t at all. You're watchin’ your chance to get the drop on me and have me took— that's what you’re doin’! ““Walit!” she pleaded desperately. “T was going to Millington. But I'd turn back and show you the way to Part- ridgeville to help you. “What's it to you?’ He had drawn the gun from his belt and now wai fingering it nervously. “You're lost up here in the moun- tains, aren't you?” she 1 ” couldn’t let you stay lost if it was possible for me to direct you on your way.” “You sald you was lost yourself.” “I was lost—until I stumbled into this clearing. That gave me my lo- cation.” “Smart, ain’t you? Damn smart, but not too smart for me, you woman!” The flare flamed up again in his crooked eyes. “You know who I be, all right. You know what I'm aimin’ to do. ‘And you're stallin’ for time till you can put one over. But you can’t—see! I'll have this busi- ness done with. I'll end this busi- ness!” * * x % SKE felt herself sinking to her knees. He advanced and gripped her left wrist. The crunch of his iron fingers sent an arrow of pain through her arm. It bore her dow: “For God's sake—don" she whispered hoarsely, overwhelmed with horror. For the cold, sharp nose of l‘?e revolver suddenly punched her neck. “I ain't leavin' no traces behind. Might as well be hung for & sheep as a lamb. Never mind if I do— “Look!"” she cried wildly. “Look, look, look!” And with her free hand she pointed behind him. 1t was an old trick. There was nothing behind -him. But in that in- stant of desperation instinct had guided her. Involuntarily he turned. With a scream of pain she twisted from his grasp and blotted out the candle. A long, livid pencil of orange flame spurted from the gun-point. She sensed ‘the powder-flare in her face. He had missed. She scrambled for shelter beneath the table. The cabin was now in inky blackness. ; Across that black four more threads of scarlet light were laced. The man stumbled about seek- ing her, cursing with blood-curdling blasphemy. Suddeniy he tripped and went sprawling. The gun clattered from his bruised fingers; it struck the woman’s knee. Swiftly her hand closed upon it. The hot barrel burned her palm. She was on her feet in an instant. Her left hand fumbled in her blouse, and she found the flash-lamp. With her back against the door, she pulled it forth. With the gun thrust forward for action she pressed the button. “I've got the gun—get up!” she or- dered. “Don’t come near me or I'll shoot. Back up against that wall The bull's-eye of radiance blinded him. When his eyes became accus- tomed to the light he saw its reflec- tion on the barrel of the revolver. He obeved. = Put up your hands. Put 'em up ghi uppose 1 won't?” )2 “T'll kill you.” “What'll you gain by that?’ “Five thousand dollars.” “Then you know who I be?” ‘And was aimin’ to take me in?" e 4 o ‘How you goin’ to do that if I won't go?" “You're goin’ to find out.” “You won't get no money shootin® me.” & 'Yes, I will—just as much—dead or aliv ‘With his hands raised a little way above the level of his shoulders, he ls{tofi? rigidly at bay in the circle of ght. “Well,” he croaked at last, “go ahead and shoot. I ain’t aimin’ to be took—not by no woman. Shoot, damn you, and have it done with. I'm waitin'! “Keep up those hands “I won't! He lowered them de- fiantly, “I w-wanted to m-make Part- ridgeville to see the old lad: She'd ‘a’ helped me. But anything’s better ‘n goin’ back to that hell where I been the last two years. Go on! Why don’t you shoot?* “You wanted to make Partridg ville and see—who?” “My mother—and my wife.” rot a mother? Have 7ou ot s—witeT” es, and three kids. Why don't you shoot?” It seemed an eon that they stood 80. The McBride woman was trying to find the nerve to fire. She could not. In that instant she made a discovery that many luckless souls make too late; to kill a man is easy to talk about, easy to write about. But to stand deliberately face to face with a fellow-human—alive, pulsing. breathing, fearing, hoping, loving, living—point 8_weapon at him that would take his life, blot him from the earth, negate twenty or thirty years of childhood, youth, maturity, and make him in an instant—nothing!— that is quite another matter. He was helpless before her now. Perhaps the expression on his face had something to do with the sud- den revulsion that halted her finger. Facing certain death, some of the evil in those crooked eyes seemed to die out, and the terrible personality of the man to fade. Regardless of her danger, regardless of what he would have done to her if luck had not turned the tables, Cora McBride saw before her only a lone man with all society’s hand against him, realizing he had played a bad game to the limit and lost, two big tears creep- ing down his unshaved face, waiting for the end. “Three children!” faintly. “Yes, “You're going back to see them?” 'Yes, and my mother. Mother’d help me get to Canada—somehow. * % ¥ % CORA McBRIDE had forgotten all about the five thousand dollars. She was stunned by the announce- ment that this man had relatives—a mother, a wife, three babies. The human factor had not before occurred to her. Murderers! They have no license to let their eyes well with tears, to have wives and bables, to possess mothers who will help them get to Canada regardless of what their earthly indiscretions may have been. At this revelation the gun point wavered. The sight of those tears on his face sapped her will power even as a wound In her breast might have drained her life blood. Her great moment had been given her. She was letting it slip away. She had her reward in her hand for the mere pulling of a trigger and no incrimination for the result. For a bit of human sentiment she was bungling the situation unpardonably, fatally. The gun sank, sank—down out of the light, down out of sight. 8 And the next instant he was upon er. The flash-lamp was knocked from her hand and blinked out. It struck the stove and she heard the tinkle of the broken lens. The woman's hand caught at the sacking before the window at her shoulder. Grip- ping it wildly to save herself from the onslaught, she tore it away. For the second time the revolver was twisted from her raw fingers. The man redred upward, over her. “Where are you?’ he roared again and again. “T'll show you! Outside the great yellow moon of early winter, arising late, was com- | img up over the silhouetted line of purple mountains to the eastward. It illumined the cabin with a faint radi- ance, disclosing the woman crouch- ing beneath the table. The man saw her, pointed his ‘weapon point-blank at her face and fired. To Cora McBride, prostrate there in her terror, the impact of the bul- let felt like the blow of a stick upon the cheek bone, rocking her head. Her cheek felt warmly numb. She pressed a quick hand involuntarily against it, and drew it away sticky with blood. Click! Click! Click! Three times the revolver mechan- tsm was worked to accomplish her destruction. But there was no fur- she whispered YOUNG MEXICAN DIPLOMAT WORKS FOR BETTER UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN HIS COUNTRY AND THE UNITED STATES ther report. The cylinder was empty. “Where's your cartridges?" he cried :l}:l‘ly. ou got more; gimme that elt!” She felt his touch upon her. His crazy fingers tried to unbutton the clasp of the belt and holster. Eut he could secure neither while she fought him. He pinioned her at length with his knee. His fingers secured a fistful of the cylinders from her girdle, and he opened the cham- ber of the revolver. She tried to struggle loose, but the lunatic held her mercilessly. He con- tinued the mechanical loading of the revolver. The semi-darkness of the hut, the outline of the moon afar through the uncurtained window—these swam be- fore her. . Suddenly her eyes riveted on that curtainless window and she uttered a terrifying cry. Ruggam turned. Outlined in the window aperture against the low-hung moon, Martin Wiley, the murdered ' deputy, was staring into the cabin From the fugitive’s throat came a gurgle. Some of the cartridges he held spilled to the flooring. Above her his figure became rigid. There was no mistaking the identity of the apparition. They saw his dark pom- padour and the outline of his skull. As that horrible silhouette remained there, Wiley's pompadour lifted slightly, as it had done in life. The cry in the convict's throat broke forth into words. “Mart Wiley!” he cried, “Mart Wi- ley! Mart—Wiley!” Clear, sharp, distinct was the shaps of that never-to-be-forgotten pom- padour against the disk of the win- ter moon. His features could not be discerned, for the source of light was behind him, but the silhouette was sufficient. It was Martin Wiley: he was alive. His head and his wire- lilke hair were moving—rising, fall- ng. Ruggam, his &yes riveted upon the phantom, recoiled mechanically to the western wall. He finished loading the revolver by the sense of touch. Then: Spurt after spurt of fire lanced the darkness, directed at the Thing in the window. While the air of the hut reeked with the acrid smoke, the echo of the volley sounded through the silent forest-world miles away. But the silhouette in the window remained. 2 Once or twice it moved slightly as though in surprise; that was all. The pompadour rose in bellicose retalia- tion as always when Wiley was angered ‘or excited. But to bullets fired from an earthly gun the mur- dered deputy's ghost, arisen in these winter woods to prevent another slaughter, was impervious. Ruggam saw; he shrieked. He broke the gun and spilled out th empty shells He fumbled in more cartridges, locked the barrel and fired again and again, until once more it was empty. Still the apparition rematned. The man in his dementia hurled the weapon. It struck the sash and caromed off, hitting the stove. Then Hap Ruggam collapsed upon the floor. * x % % TH‘E ‘woman sprang up. She found the rope thongs which had bound her pack to her shoulders. With steel-taut nerves, she tied his hands; she tied his ankles; she connected the two bindings tightly behind him. Her task accomplished, she thought to glance up at the window. Wiley's ghost had disappeared. Sherifft Crumpett and his party broke into the Lyons clearing within an hour. They had arrived in answer to five successive shots a few mo- ments apart, the signal agreed upo The mystery to them, however, wasg that those five shots had been fired by McBride woman. her clothing hal? torn from her bLody, her features pow- der-marked and blood-stained; game to the last, woman jon weeping only now that all was over. They found, too, the man they had combed the country to find—struggling fruit- lessly in his bonds, her prisoner. On the snow outside under the win- dow they came upon a black porcu pine about the size of a man's hes which, scenting food within the cabin, had climbed to the sill, and after the habit of these little animals, had re- quired fifteen bullets pumped into its carcass before it would release its hold. in uncanny ‘Wiley's pompadour. (Copyright, 1 to the light of the American press, We are not at present what we were a few months ago, and undoubtedly this change of opinion cannot be due only to the evolutionary changes that the Mexican nat'on n under- going during such a short period, but must be accounted for in a better knowledge of us. ““This, at least, shows that there ex- ists confidence; that the Mexican bandit screen story, prevailing in the ill-informed American belief of a few years ago, has no more face value at present than a fairy tale, and that, to the advantage of both pecple, the Americans at large are beginning to Tealize that we are not human-life eaters, but common foik that, while mindful of others, have had their troubles and have tried to settle them to the best of their abilit: “It has been the avowed policy of our government to encourage and fa- cilitate the ways for Americans and foreigners of all _nationalities to come to Mexico. We wanted them to see the truth fer themselves; we tanted them to come and see us as we are, 80 that they might return and tell their own personal story, not others’, giving us credit for what- ever we deserve and expressing their criticisms which, when impartial, we appreciate. 1 am happy that not- withstanding the very great diffi- culties that have been in the way, this policy, coupled with the unfail- ing principles and good faith of the Mexican people and our government, has brought about the most fruitful results. “The facts can be gathered from the United States commercial reports, which show that while the trade with all other countries has dropped, dur- ing the last eight months the trade | with Mexico has increased over 60 per cent, as compared with the cor- responding period of last year, and this, of course, was accomplished be- fore the American business world was convinced that article 27 of our constitution was not a confiscatory ! and detrimental provision to foreign SENOR DON MANUEL C. TELLEZ, Charge d’affairs of the Manuel C. Tellez, whose official title in the Congressional Directory is sec- retary of the Mexican embassy. Since last year he has been in charge of Mexico's affairs in the United States. That Senor Tellez is a diplomat who is destined to achieve renown is evi- denced by the fact that from the day he was first placed in charge of Mexi- co's affairs in Washington until the present, he has not only made many friends for his government, but has | s 2lso been the moving spirit in bring- ing about a 'clearer understanding be- tween the two countries. To accom- plish this result has not deen an easy matter, because at all times there have been business interests that were quite willing to have our sister r public to the south in a state of tur- mofl. Secretary of State Hughes, Un- dersecretary of State Fletcher and Benor Tellez, however, have not been discouraged in their attempts to bring about a condition which would be sat- istactory to the peoples of both coun- tries, and close students of diplomatic affairs have voiced the opinion that in the near future complete friendly re- lations will be established between the two governments. Senor Telles was born in the capital city of the state of Zacatecas, Mexico, in 1885. He received his education in the city of Mexico. In 1905 he becam a member of the staff of the depart. ment of foreign affairs. His first post was secretary to the Mexican consul Mexican embassy. at San Antonio, Tex., in 1906, and he ‘was afterward transferred to several posts, both in the consular and diplo- matic services, in Canada, China and Japan. At the beginning of last year Senor Telles was appointed first sec- retary of the embassy in Washington |4 and a few months later took over the duties of charge d’affaires. In discussing general conditions re- ee?tly ‘with the writer Senor Telles 2 am convinced that without knowl- edge there can be no sympathy and real understanding, and, therefore, during my years of service my official and pesronal aims have always been to try to let my people and my coun: try be better known and understood by the people of the countries where I have been posted. This has been, of late, here in the United States, a most pleasant task. The gruesome misconceptions which prevailed jere in regard to the Mexican people and character up to some time ago—mis- conceptions which were mainly due to lack of truthful and impartial in- formation—very happily have been largely corrected, and I am very glad to say that everywhere in this cou try.there is to be found a better feel- ing toward our people and country and a greater interest to know and upderstand them than ever before. I have full data to establish this, but let me mention only the two following facts, which are the common prop- erty of the man in the street: First, 1 Ppointm good ; something that, tl:ouch uman, may interests, but simply a provision to foreign interests but simply a pro- vision protectory, without discrim- ination of Mexican rights, dictated under the ligat of our own sorrowful past experiences; and also long be- fore the oil and the banking inter- ests came to understand that our business, after ten years of hard fighting, was not to fight but to come to an honest, fair and direct under- standing. In touching upon the question of jarmament the senor said: ‘“While Mexico has vast interests on the Pacific, which are bound to be de- veloped to an enormous extent within & very short time, our government has not been invited to the confer- ence on limitation of armaments, and consequently 1 have no official opinion to express in that respect. ‘But, though it might seem para- doxical to say it after our years of internal strife, as Mexico is at heart & peace-loving country, ready to grasp and make its own any ideal for the betterment of mankind, and as the proposed object of the conference is to settle by mutual agreement some of the international questions and dif- ferences of opinion which are thought to be in the way of an immediate world peace, Mexico will follow with ‘the keenest interest the arrange- ments now being made for the con- ference. “Personally, I may say that we Mexicans feel confident that after the experiences of The Hague peace con- ferences and the Versailles disap- ts the world's diplomacy and will will now give mankind be richer in realities.’