Evening Star Newspaper, August 30, 1925, Page 76

BATTLE BLOOD THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON By Mary Synon The Girl Was Afraid Nothing Would Ever Steady Him. IMMIE BRADEN swaggered into} Burning Bush one Saturda; afternoon of mid-August with | a hope, an ambition, tiny. The hope, an only ncknowledged desire 1o see Letty Carlin, giimgmered under the definite =mbition to outdance that night any other cattle aristo of the district in the weekly hop at the Purple Par- rot. The destiny, all unknown to him, Iready wafted across the street from his mother's cottuge in the house where Caroline Staley had just died. Had he Known the first cards in the deck he ‘would, undoubtedly, have ridden back %o his ranch in the val- Jey fad Mrs. Staley known the fate «rotind the corner for little Ben and Tessie she would probably have foughtwdenth to the last gulch instead of accepting it with Christian forti- tude, far Jimmie Braden was then about a3 wild a colt as Burning Bush flaunteda and Burning Bush had had its own Abare of wild men. But the mother ofy the Staley children passed quietly to jher reward without thought of Jimmid Braden, which was, per- haps, justzas well, since she liked him even less than anything eise in the 1own; and'\Jimmie Braden came into his own mo\her's kitchen with blithe disregard of any discounted future. st a cleann shirt for me?” he de- manded, after a purely perfunctory salute upon the ald lady's red-apple cheek. * Twould serve you right if I had none,” she told him. regarding him with that mixiure of adoration and | disapprobation which only the Irish can give their sons. “Then T'll have to buy another.” “You've fifteen already. “That'll make sixteen, you—r>- Mrs. Staley's dead,” she told him, | to circumvent the implied rebuke. “That so0?" he went easy, #fter all.” “Where are the kids?" Letty Carlin took them off with her. She'll bring them back tonight so that Ben can have them with him.” “Over there?" *‘No, here.” “What time?"” “After supper. Why?" Nothing,” He went into his own room and began to pull out drawers in tugging haste. “Seen my blue 1ie?” he called. “T did not.” He whistled as he undressed until his mother's voice rose in sharp | admonition. *“You nmght respect the dead,” she told him. | “All right” He humming. and if shifted to low IEEE §F SUPPOSE they'll take her back to Towa. She never did like this place. She never made friends with any one here, though she was a nice enough woman. She told me once she was in exile. ‘Don’t_see what she had to kick about,” Jimmie said, casually. “Ben was good to her.’” “She was lonesome for her own folks.” “Well, she had the kids. They're folks enough, I'd say.” He rose to defend his kind. s built her a good _house, didn’t he “Well, anyhow——" ‘Any woman's a fool to fuss over some old burg in the East, he coun- tered, winking at himseif in the mirror in keen appreciation of how the thrust got under his mother’s love for Chicago. ‘You ought to be ghe last one to talk against people going away,” she said, “when you ran off yourself Winter after Winter to California. or Florida. or N'Orleans.” “Im not married,” Be bragged. “Worse luck,” she said, but he| laughed. knowing she did not mean it. In the mirror. thoogh, he saw himself color sharply as she called to | him, “You'd better be hurrying up With it, or somebody else may get the girl you want.” “There’s no girl I want.” he ma zed to say, but the thought of Lett Carlin danced between him and h own image. ‘“Where are my silk socks?” he cried. ‘“And is the water hot? Boiling,” she assured him. “And they're in the top drawer. Are you always as blind as this? And vou'd better hurry if you're going to be dressed in time for your supper.” In spite of her warning he was ready for supper when she put it on the table. Across the board the old lady surveyed him with unreserved distaste. 1 should think you'd be tired of them Saturday night dances,” she observed. “Say, I could die dancing. It's'a wonder you don’ ¢ Say, ma, didn't you ever dance?” ot In places like the onmes you go They don't hurt me.” They don't help you. And do you ever see nice girls like Letty Carlin in_them?” “I should say not.” Indignation surged in him at the thought. “You don’t go to dances to meet nice girls, though,” he amended. “You go for a good time.” “Maybe you'll lose the nice girl to the good tims “Oh, cut_it!” His flush ran deeper as he heard voices otside. *“Some one’s coming,” he warned her, and rose to open the deor. 1 *xx % the silver of the twilight | Let - Carlin stood, slim and| straight, vetween the Staley young. ‘ters. The look she cast upon Jimmie | was singularly direct, almost apprais- ing. as if it sought answer to some in- ward question she held toward him. Despite the fact that for a week he had cherished the thought of seeing her again, he could not quite meet that level gaze, and so turned to the hildren. “Come on in,” he urged them. They came silently. the children ding to Letty's hands. We had supper,” the girl refused s eager invitation, but_ little Ben GAT: 5o ! going over there’ | a little bit wild. You know you have, | oft from his tone rather than from and Jessie edged out into the kitchen, following Mrs. Braden, their Gibral- | tar of cookies. “Tough, isn't it?” Jimmie sald, his gaze on them as they went. es,” the girl said. *“They don't | realize it, though.” She, too, was looking after them, and there was a wistfulness in h deep into Jimmie fter a while.” Instinctively he shied away from meeting the reality of a neighbor's death. “After the dance, I suppose.” She said it without rancor, but he felt the blood flowing faster into his cheeks. “I wouldn't go to the dances,” he said, defeasively, “if some people T know would let’ me come and see them.” _ “Do you mean me?” she demanded, in_surprise. “I don” said it to.” She frowned in puzzled wonder. “It's nothing to me if you go to those dances. “Then why do you dodge me as if I had smallpox?” don’t. u_ do. 1l tell you why,” she said, turn- ing to him again that considering look. “It's beesuse I'm not sure what you're going to ve.” “To be?" Yes, to be. Just now you're Jim- mie Braden, a nice kid I've grown up with here in Burning Bush, but run know anybody else I ever Jimmie. You run around with the boys of the Double Y, and bring in hooch from Canada, and make a game of beating the law, and you dance at the Purple Parrot, and you get in fights with the XL outfit, and you are in every kind of trouble that's Most of it you make, at ** he said, griml ou don’'t change—and change soon—you’ll be like Tom Corliss and Jed Whitney and all the rest of them who hang around the town.” Her voung voice grew solemn in its ear- nestness. “Oh, go on, Letty.,” he tried to “It's not as bad as that.” ou brought this on yourself. Oh, it's because there's so much in you that could make a big man that I'm | ng this.” ‘Then there is a little hope for me?” he teased her. “It’s not for me to say.” la She shied | the worde. es, it It's for you to do. ou sound so much mother,” he grinned at her, something tells me you'll He laughed as she rose suddenly and went after the children into the kitch- | en. The youngsters came in to him | then, cookies clutched in their hands, | childish terror at a grief they could not understand still lurking in their eves. Little Ben climbed up on Jim- knee. ‘Tell us the story about the tim- ber wolf,” he pleaded. Tell us about Cinderella,” begged Jessie, standing beside him. need a fairy godmother of my own,” he told her. “I want some one to change me into a good young man who teaches Sunday school on Satur- day nights, and who asks old Jed Whitney to share his last ice cream | soda.” ~There came no sound from the kitchen, but his mother's voice, and he piunged into the story of the timber wolf. “That's more my style,” he assured Jessie. =R JIE had finished the narrative, em- broidered with a dozen touches of local color, when his mother came into the room. “Where's Letty?’ he asked her. he went out the kitchen way,™ she said as she took the children. I'll have to put Ben in vour room,” she told him. ‘That’s all right.” Don't wake him when you come like my “that 'm not coming back tonight,” he | said, and wondered if she would find | in Letty’s going the reason for his decision. She said nothing, however, | and he bade the children good-night | ere he set forth toward the Purple Parrot. Dancing was in swing when he reached the place, but he failed to enter into the fun with his usual zest. The boys from the Double Y outfit, his old cronies, rallied him on his lack of enthusiasm, and girl after girl sought to interest him, but in vain. He was seeing the fire in Letty's eyes and the flush in her cheeks, and beginning to question himself on the rightness of her judgment. By midnight he was finding the Purple Parrot curiously dull. By the old rules of his game he would have started to liven up the institution, but that night he seemed to lack incen- tive toward devising deviltry. Un- heralded, he slipped out between dances, and sauntered up the street toward his mother's house, not re- membering till he was almost there that he had volunteered his room to little Ben Staley. The thought of the child reminded him of another obligation, and he turned in toward the Staley house, where a log light burned.” As he hesitated at the door Ben Staley spoke to him from the dark porc t down ou here with me, Jimmie," he said, almost pleadingly, and Braden slipped into one of the rocking chairs on_the veranda. The two men smoked in silence for a little while. Then Staley spoke. “A man’s asking a lot of a woman to come out into new country,” he said slowly. “Some of them tried to console him. “Not all of them. My wife didn't. She was always hankering for lowa. Called it God's country. 1 never saw it that way. This is my kind of land.” In the gloom his big arm shot out in a gesture of ownership. “I came into it when I was a boy, same as your father did. There wasn't a like it,” Jimmie BTN | impossibility | want to see a girl fence then for a hundred miiles, and | Burning Brush wasn’t more than a| stage station. I've seen it grow—but | it's now through growing. It's man's country, Jimmie, and I've alway wanted it to be my boy's count That's why 1 couldn’'t leave it, even when she used to say that we had | plenty of money to live anywhere we wanted. T want to live here. 1 want my children - to be raised here. I want them to know it, and love it, samo as I do. You won’t forget that, will you, if anything happens to me?" “I won't forget it.” The solemnity of the plea smote him. “You're not likely to;” Staley said. 4L Aucss you. fool about this same as do.” “Sure.” Ho puffed at his cigaret, | considering his feelings toward the place as Staley relapsed into silence. Yes, he did love it, he realized, with | an understanding which explained | Staley’s attitude. If he ever had a boy, he'd want him to grow up here. | And if he ever had a wifo who wanted | to go back to Towa—words fafled him at the thought of Letty committed to such heresy, but thought faled him at memory of Letty. She waured hi to change, did she? Well, he wouldn’ He fell into fitful slumber as he sat | with Staley and dreamed of Letty. He awoke to other dreams of Letty, only to come out of them with a smolder- ing resentment = i her desire to make him over wouldn't she take men as th HE resentment grew thmough the | next day, and he went back to his | ranch in the valley after Mrs. Staley's | funeral without making any attempt | to sce Letty. Little Ben and Jessie | were to stay ey returned from lowa, was taking his wife’s body. By Thurs day night Jimmie Braden had con | vinced himself that it was his solic tude over the old lady’s unmwonted re- sponsibility which took him back to | town. After a romp with the chil-| dren, however, he boldly set out to| Carlin’'s. Letty, opening the door for him, did not conceal her surprise at his coming, but gave a look which emphasized the of informal speech be- fore her family “Ma wants you td take a look at Jessie Staley,” he lied swiftly. She laughed as she came out on the walk. “Now tell me the truth,” she com manded. “I just wanted to see you.” “For what?” “For what doe: at his mother's until | where he a dfellow usually “Oh, Jimmie!" There was pleading under the laughter of Ber tone. “I thought you'd made your. decision Sat urday night when you went to the Purple Parrot.” “Well, you didn’t give me any en- couragement to stay away from there, | did you?"” “Don’t you see,” she said, “that T| can't give you anything antil you've taken the first steps for yearself?" “What steps? “Oh, what's the use of going over Responsiblity, of course.” “I'm_trying to take the responsi- bility for you. Don't you love me a little bit, Letty? I thought—" “I don’t know,” she said miserably. ‘I like to be with you amd I'm un. happy when I don't see you, but 1| don’t know if I can trust you, Jimmie, dear. You see, you've never had to| be responsible for anything. Your | father looked out for your mother, and | he left vou the ranch, and so you've | just fallen into the way of taking | things as they came. You're so—so gay.” Her voice ran into a little sob. | “You're not holding that against | me, are you?” | “Not exactly,” she said. “But T| don’t know if you can be anything o Nobody can tell till he's been tried. | What do you want me to do?" “I don’t know, and I couldn't trust myself to you, to any one, until I s sure. 1 “Of what?" | She f him almost defian her young eves as somber as voung cheeks were know,” she said, “that the man 1| marry will take care of our children right if anything ever happened to me. That's what I dont know about you, Jimmie.” “Well, there's only one way to find = heju;ld h;;. B ou joke about everything,” she sobbed. “There {sn’t anything sacred to you. That's the answer, isn‘t it? No, you needn’t say anything more | to me. h, Letty, have a heart!” “Don’t talk to me,” she stormed. “I should have known better than taken you seriously. Well, T won't again. Don't touch me! I'm going | home, and you needn’'t come after me.” “I won't,” he said grimly, the fun gone from his eye: “If you cared for me at all, you'd know you could trust me. That's what love is. And if you can’t——" he started after her angrily. “Now I will raise the 1id,” he prom- ised himself. HE ‘was diverted, however, from his full intention by the circum- stance that Thérsday night was a bad night for lid-lifting in Burning Bush. He was wandering around in earch of a kindred spirit when he met one of the Double Y outfit. “I've just been listening to old Cronkrite,” that worthy of the saddle told him. ““He says he’s going to get the law on Ben Staley as soon as he gets in from Towa.” * “For what? ““He says Staley cheated him out of land near the }Five Forks.” “He didn’t. He paid him what he asked.” “The old man says he didn't know what it" was worth, and that Staley did.” “That's no crim “No! If he's i | | | | | | | * ok ok % a friend of yours, I‘l“\ A AGAINST THE SILVER OF THE TWILIGHT. LETTY CARLIN STOOD, SLIM, STRAIGHT, BETWEEN THE » STALEY YOUNGSTERS, e A | with him at all if he hadn’t owned the r | | Bush. | though, and he sought to sing. { him. | “and stay there till I send for | velled. rlet. “T want to | { down.” wise. though, you'd better put Staley sheep Old Cronkrite's meaner'n a man.” “I'll tell him.” Entertainment failing, he went to his mother's, and, because he held hope that Letty might change her mind, he lingered in town till Satur- day, and so chanced to meet Staley, and told him of the man’'s warning. 0 reason for Cronkrite to raise about it,” Staley sald. “It was I pald his Don’t worry,” Jimmy counseled. “The old crabs have to vell about something. Youwll beat him hands down.” o “He's a mean old ¢ “He couldn’t be meaner than the X-L outit.” g But you know what they’ 11 do, and vou can’'t guess about fellows like Cronkrite. I wouldn't have dickered land between the three pieces I have over there.” . “Oh, forget him. The judge and juries around here know him as well as we do.” “That's right,” Staley said, adding, as if in justification of his worr “You see, 1 can't go around looking for rows the way vou do, Jimmie. ve got the kids te think about.” Sura” Jimmie eaid, and went away, pondering on the handicaps of parenthood. “I'd like to see anything keep me out of a good 8ght” Through two days he avoided Letty, an easier trick now that little Ben and Jessie werd once more at home_ with their fathor, and under the haphazard care of an old Indan woman whom Staley employed; but Saturday night found him with a strange distaste for the Purple Par-| rot, and on Sunday morning he rode | back to his own ranch. He did not| go into town uagain for nearly a month, telephoning his mother that he was too busy for the short jour- ney. Finally, though, the desire for | his kind triumphed over his melan- choly, and he rode into Burning Bush | another Saturday afternoon. He| falled to see Letty, and strove to find | out about her by discreet questioning | of his mother. The old lady was too | concerned, however, about the case of old man Cronkrite against Stal to have interest in any other affair. “He lost,” she told Jimmie, “and he said he'd kill him.” “I've heard of a cockroach killing a coyote,” Jimmie scoffed. He could get 1o ne 3 he decided to essay the dance hall. After all, a fellow couldn't be a her- mit because a girl high-hatted him. There were plenty of girls who'd trust him with responsibility, even if they mightn't he girls like Letty. He tried to whistle merrily as he fast- ened a tle with meticulous care, pre- paring for a neat but not gaudy ap- pearance upon the streets of Burning The whistle failed to ring, “Are you in pain?” his mother called to “Worse than that,” he said, and started out toward the kitchen just as the sound of a shot roared through the evening quiet of Burning Bush With one bound he was at the door- peering through the dusk. Where is it?" Mrs. Braden cried. “Jtmmie, don’t go out!” But aiready he was gone, having seen a figure rushing out from the Staley porch across the street. 3 Aok ‘HE children met him at the door, Jessle. too terror-stricken to speak, little Ben moaning with ex- citement. The old Indian woman crouched in a corner of the room, staring toward a heap on the floor. Jimmie Braden followed her gaze, and saw Ben Staley lying in a widen- ing pool of blood. “Go on over to my mother,” he bade the children, = He grabbed the telephone, and ¢ Dr. Williams. “Staley's shot,” Then he went over to the| wounded man. Staley opened his s heavily. “He got me” he y Jimmie made survey of the ‘He got you,” he said shortly. ant anything?"” Miller,” Staley said. The lawyer. I want to add something to—my will It's In the safe.” He summoned the numbers of the combination by a ter- rible mental effort. ‘That’s it. Hold it till T can say it.” His eves closed. “Where's Miller? Coming.” He came, even before Dr. Williams, and Jimmie went out, shoving the Indian woman before him, to leave the two men alone. In a moment, Rowever, the lawyer came after him. “He wants you, too,” Miller sald. He went back and knelt beside Staley, seeing how gray he had gone in the brief moments. “I want you to take care of the children,” Staley said slowly, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “Will you?” ure."” I'm making you their guardlan.” h, say. I want them to grow up here. It's country. You understand.” Bah Won't vou do it?" “Oh, sure, T wil It was not in Jimmie Braden's code to refuse a dying man who appealed to him. Want them now?” Staley nodded, and Jimmle went out and summoned Jessie and little Ben. Solemnly he Stood between them, meeting the look in Staley’s glazing eyes. The children clung to him as if he were their only anchor in a stormy sea. Dr. Willlams, bending over the dying man, nodded to Miller. His nod bade haste, and the lawyer came forward to take a place beside him. “I want,” Staley said, his voice clearing a little, “to have Jimmie Bra- den have my children. Set that the Miller set it on the pad in his hand. “Make it hold,” Staley commanded. “Sign here,” the lawyer ordered. The man signed heavily on the document Jimmie had taken from the safe. “I want witnesses,” Miller sald, and called two men from the porch. They signed under Staley’s name and went out. The children still clung to Jim- mie. “Take care of them,” Staley said and closed his eves. He did not open them again. * & ok X JDMMIE, still dazed by the tragedy, took the children back to his! | overtook mother. 'm their guardian,” he said. “You're a fine guardian.” “Well, I am, anyway. “Heaven help them!” For all the tragedy he laughed. “Maybe it’s heaven help me.” “Maybe it is. Here, Ben, lamb, drink a little of this broth now. That's a good girl, Jessie. It's a good thing for both of you that your guardian has a mother. There's no telling what he’d be giving you for food. Oats, I suppose. What'll you ever do with the she demanded. 1l manage,” he said, but no one wondered how more than did he. Had it not been for the town's sorrow over the Staley children, Burning Bush would have seen at once the comedy of the situation which made Jimmie Braden responsible for the welfare of little Ben and Jessie. No one before had trusted him with more than a message. He himself seemed to think the job purely nominal, until Miller took him into session the day after Staley’s funeral. “Look here,” the lawyer warned him, “you have a man sized job on your hands. “Well, they're man sized hands.” “They'll have to be. Do you know » D €, AUGUST 30, 1925— PARYT ‘K"I’l:llr [.}ITT\: HUDDLED DOWN BESIDE HIM, HE how much Ben Staley left those chil dren”” “If he didn’t leave enough, the old lady and I'll manage all right. “He left enough. I dom’t know but what he’s left too much. Some one'll be sure to raise trouble.” Why 2" ““There’ll be more than a million dollars when we get it in shape.” “For those two babies to spend?” “For you to hold for them." “For me?” He wiped his forehead. “You're their guardian. The codi- ilI's bombproof. I'm filing if tomor- “What @y T have to do?” “File bond.” “For a million. Where'd T get it>" “I'll fix that.” “Trust me “1f Sta- ley did, I can,” he said “Then what do I do?” “Look after the property and see that none of it gets away. “Well, I've lost none of my own, but that little old ranch of mine is about all I've ever reckoned to han- dle.” “This 1s a big job, Jimmie. big even for Ben Stale “Why do you suppose he picked me ““He knew the children liked you.” T like them.” “And you were there.” “I'm always out of luck.” “Some men wouldn't call it that.” “Does this constitute me with the It was {legal right to go after old Cronkrite.” “The law’ll get him.” * HE law didn’t. for old man Cronk rite killed himself before ju him, and Burning = Bush waited for another kind of next c ter, wondering what Jimmie Braden would do with his charzes. e did nothing for awhile but leave them in his mother's care. Jessie and Ben solved part of their problem by mov. ing themselves, without bag or bag- gage, across the street. “It goes with me,” he said blithely. although it meant giving up his own room to the boy. “We like this place,” sald Jessie gravely, ‘“and we're going to stay with you ailways. Our father told you we were, didn't he, Jimmie?” “Sure.” “Even when yvou marry Letty.” ‘m not going to marry anvybody.” “When I'm big,” Ben saved the day, T'm going out every Saturday night to dances.” “You are not,” said Mrs. Braden. “Eat up your mush now, and don't be watching him.” “Eat,” ordered Jimmie. He sat down with them, chaffing them, teas- ing them, petting them. Will vou take us to church to- morrow?” Jessie asked. “Me?" Your mother said you might.” “She'll take you.” “I will not,” said Mrs. Braden. “They’re your responsibility.” “Oh, go on, ma. I'll give you a new clock for Christmas.” “T want no clock.” “I'll buy you that dress in Gold- man’s window.” “I'll not be bribed. Eat that egg, Jessie.” “I'll get you a sewing machine.” “What time have I for sewing?” He hesitated, watching the two heads bent over their food. Then he rose swiftly, and went out of the house, going straight to Letty Carlin. “Will you take the kids to church tomor- row?" he asked he “Why don't you?’ “You know I haven't been to church for years. “Then why do you want them to go?" “Kids ought to go,” he sald. “They ought to have something, you know.” ‘Something to throw away when they get old enough to want to throw?” “Oh, say, Letty,” he pleaded in frank trouble, “be a sport, and take them.” “You're their guardian,” she said. It's your job.” “If 1 make the grade of it,” he demanded of her, “will you revise your opinion of me?” “I'll think it over,” she promised. “You watch my smoke!” * K kX Tm-: smoke began to ascend the next morning when he took the children to church. He was relleved that no one gave him special heed, and that Ben and Jessie, evidently in- structed by his mother, behaved with angelic rectitude. Burning Bush had evidently decided to let him go his way without provocative intrusion, and only Letty's smile across the edi- fice gave him any particular sense of triumph in the achievement. He went around to see her that evening, hoping for more particular encourage- ment, but “You've just begun” was as far as she would commit herself. “I'll bet,” he told her, “that I'm the only man in the world who had to prove that he could take care of a couple of kids before he could get a | wife.” “It'n be better for the kids if more men had to,” she retorted. Except for his renunclation of the Saturday-night dances and his ap- peatance at Sunday church service he went at about the old pace, joining in trouble whenever the Double Y outfit clashed "dnth&he XL mwd‘:,nd mofor. ing_un Canadian border, gradually. the authority. I‘lllm\q5 A e which Staley’s will provided for him. Then, one Winter morning, came a letter from Mrs. Staley’s brother-in Jaw in lowa. It was addressed to the judge of the Probate Court, and served notice that he, Willlam Rogers, | ted his voice in protest against th anship of James Braden ov Caroline Staley's cnildren, and that he would, as soon as possible, appear in Burning Bush to secure that guar- iship for his wife, Alma Rogers, sister to the deceased Caroline. What does it mean?” Jimmie asked Miller after the lawyer had read him the lette “It means a fight “Come, seven! I've been getting ru: his won't be a rough-and-tumble, Jimmie. hard, nasty court battle. Uff is the sister of the mother. You are no kin to them. A jury may decide against you, if it Zoes to a jury. A judge may decide against you, if it doesn’t go to a jury. You may have to appeal. Itll cost a lot of money, and, if you lose, you'll have to pay the money yourself.” “And if I lose, the kids'l go awa: “If these people want to take them.” “Ben didn't want his children taken away. I reckon that's why he chose me for their guardian. He talked to me about it once. He said he wanted | them to grow up out here in the country."” “We'll fight on that line said, “but don't forget that to be a long fight and a hard fight “I wasn't hoping for any such| luck,” said Jimmie. * % * knock-down, It be a The plail children’s Miller | going battle even | came HE news of the impending went through the town before Rogers' arrival. Letty to_the Bradens breathlessly. “What are you going fo do?" she demanded of Jimmie. ight, and fight, and fight some more,” he said. Before Ben and Jessie she kissed him. “I thought you would,” she said, He made a rush at her as she evaded him, but she swung out into the kitchen, and saved herself by making the old lady a barrier. “I'll get you yet,” he threatened. He began to have doubts of ultimate victory, however, as the case progressed. The Rogers descended upon Burning Bush with a law bat tery of their own. Mrs. Rogers came to Mrs. Braden's cottage to see her sister’s children, but seemed somehow unable to make friends with them. Ben and Jessie, who had learned the gbject of their aunt’s presence in the town, stood off from her, declaring afterward their fear lest she take them away. “We don't go,” Jessie declared, and Ben seconded her. “I'm going to stay with Jimmie,” he insisted. “For always,” said Jessle. when he marries you,’ Letty. “That'll be quite awhile yet," sald Letty, “if it's ever.” “It ‘he'll wait long enough, said, “I'll marry him, too. The case dragged, with Burning Bush dividing into two camps on the justice of the claim for the Staley Children, but it came at last to hear- ing. The Rogerses put forward thei demand for the guardianship, basing their plea on Caroline Staley’s ex- pressed wish that her children should find a home in her old home. Jimmie. put on the stand by Miller, combated their claim by Ben Staley's sister’s desire that his children remain in the State of their birth. It was a desire which every man there under- stood, and, expressed in Jimmie's un- consciously dramatic manner, it won the day. His guardianship of the children was insured, and the Rogerses made ready to leave the town. ‘They're not even going to appeal,” Miller told him. “I'm afraid to cheer, though, till I'm out of the woods,” he said. “I certainly bought a lot of trouble for myself with that promise to Ben, didn’t 17" “I'm wondering,” Miller said, “if it hasn’t been a good thing for you. You don't realize what it's done for you, Jim. It's steadied you.” “IVho wants to be steadied?” he mourned. “Just give me half a chance and you'll see what I can do on my old high speed.” The chance—more than half—came to him the next night. He had rid- den out to the ranch to look over some stock he had been forced to neglect during the trial, and he re- turned after dark to find his mother and_Letty alone in the cottage. “What's the trouble?” he de- manded. “They're gone,” his mother wailed. “Who?" “The children,” said Letty. “Mr. Rogers came and sald that his wife was too il to come here, but that she wanted to see them before they went ho.ne. Your mother thought it was all right, and—she let them go with him. About an hour later Mil- ler found out that they had just “Even she told Jessie | WlT [have them, we ca and went out on the Lankern road.” “Making for Thunder Butte June- tion. The limited goes through about midnight.” He' glanced at the clock. “It's 8 now. That's a little more than 2 :our-hf\fi: ride, zg”l'lb:.n.lkodtt""b “What'll you old 1 moaned. “Do?" He stared & at the query. Wl back.” “Are you going to fight?” “I'm going to do nothing else.” “I'm going with you,"” said Let You're not.” “Oh, yes, I a her in surprise bring them You're not going.” “If you don't take me “ome on.” He led the w: the street to the garage. the fastest you " he told the boy in chs « them are mon: move.” * 'H Letty huddled down beside him he plunged out into the cold Western night. Neithen of them spoke as he raised speed. The wind whistled around them. blowing breaths upon them. “You should have come,” he cried to Letty. She made no answer, except to move a little. closer to him whirled back of them, but the way seemed limitles: Nine o'clock found them at Tracy's. Ten o'clock saw them still climbing upward in the icy night. At 11 they were on the down: ward slope. * % % Numbed, Jimmie held the wheel| with freezing hands. “Let me drive awhile,” begged, but he shook his head. “I'll get us there,” he muttered. It was 10 minutes to 12 by the clock in the car when they reached the summit of the hill overlooking Thunder Butte Junction. Down the track they glimpsed the headlight of a locomotive. “Oh,” Letty gasped, roared into a spurt of speed. The train was coming a straight course where the road ran devious, circling the little village near the junction. Once something snapped, and Jimmie cursed under his breath, but they kept on moving. They were still ahead of the train as they drew up to the station platform. TUpon it they could see a little group. Rogers and his leading counsel, his wife, and the two children. Jimmie flung out of the car and across the platform. “I've come for the kids,” he sald. “Hand them over.” Ben and Jessle_ran to him_ with cries of delight. Mrs. Rogers began to cry. Rogers, a tall, dour man turned on him with a snarl. “I don’t care what your law says,” he shouted Letty and the car “There's a higher law that gives a|made their first suc right to her own sister's| woman -hildren. “There’'s a law that gives a man the right to say where his children are going to be,’ Jimmie said, “and I'm going to see that it's carvied out.” “We're not looking for any trou- ble, Braden,” the lawyer said. *‘Mrs Rogers wants the children. Rogers “Wants the money." “Oh, not entirely. See here, Bra- den”—the light from the engine swung full in their faces, and Letty saw how defiantly straight Jimmie stood against | “you haven't any particu- You're noth- Why the three— lar interest in_this row. ing to these children, after all. can't we compromise “What do you mean? “Well, why couldn't ¥e arrange to divide the guardianship fees? Vhat fees?"” “Why, the fees for taking care of the property.” “I'm charging nothing.” was_grim. “See here,” Rogers broke in. “Let's get to brass tacks. You give over your claim to these children. We'll give you twenty thousand dollars— cash.” “That's sald Rogers’ lawyer. Letty, watching from the shadow of the platform, clenched her fists. Would he take {t? Twenty thousand dollars! He'd be relieved of responsi- bility which would be irksome to him, for what able-bodled, wild-souled youth like Jimmie Braden, wanted the care of two children? He'd never touch their money, that was certain. But would he take this other money for giving them to some one who might take their money? Twenty thousand! What didn't it mean in travel, in rev- elry, in wildness for wild Jimmie Braden? She held her breath for his answer. It came with the force of & blow. “No,"” he told Rogers. * k% "THE train slowed down with grind- ing of brakes. “All aboard!” rose the conductor’s call. “Get on,” Jimmie Braden bade the three. With Ben and Jessie clinging to him, he backed to the car. “I'll drive,” Letty said, and stepped on the gas. The station platform was empty. The car shot out on high, but at the top of the hill Letty stopped. Only the light of the lantern showed on the platform below. “Safe,” she sal His voice business,” 'Now that we t lose, can we?” No,” he sald. “We can’t lose. “We thought you'd lost us,” Jessie sobbed, “and Ben and I prayed for you to come. We didn't want to go to Towa. This is our country. My father said so, didn’t he?” “You can't lose us, can you, Jim- mie?” Ben demanded. “Don’t "2' to. Here, il you're go- v down | they Mile after mile | 1. ' | same | t | over. ,are present. ing e down there. me e wheel th Letty, arranging ¥ under = to_childrer He stopped t¥ ed for it from t “but they'll |t - “I'll do my bes p_you from bei 2= erently “ve loved ‘50 well I didn't o let you know til de you see what you could b he told her. me blood. blood, that’s what it is, 2 oil till it's got a cause now, for good.” nd do we & ““Heaven? * She nestled again < place.” clutch, and tk Afte a little Jimmie aden joyously, with a th ment, of comp there flashed befo gay, wild and reckle: would ride no more. em down into a vault recollectio: and turned the key renunciation upon them softly. his own act his carefree vouth W - an fnstant he had a man whimsical sadness in its paseing Then he looked down upon Le: nodding head, and smiled as he faced forward toward the haven of Bur ing Bush. me hear t's battle doesn’t It's got one ked the robe: drove he rode memories, roads he clicked (Copsright. 1925.) The Speed Limit. HAT will be the limit of mai speed through th r? Accor Science and Invention, experts and engineers e tried 10 estimate th lin since the Wright brother: ssful flight ir power-driven airplane. Omne hund mil an hour was once considered amazing speed limit for airplane kL with many timates that lowed, has been rpassed by rapid advance of aircraft and mot designs, until up to the present tim: it is difficult to estimate what t maximum speed of future airplane will be. There are, however, two condition to be considered, namely, the mec cal limit and the physical limit tter has already shown itself closed circuit speed trials whén ma ing turns, due to the fact that trifugal force begins ting on blood, it away from t and rendering him tem; ‘While there ¢ v no physical defects note in flying a aight course, outside nerve strain, the mechanical limits This is known as an a plane’s speed range, which is the d ference between the low landing s and the highest level flying speed t definite landing eed desired becor ing the point of departure in the « sign. At the annual international air rac a landing speed not to exceed 75 miles an hour is fixed, so that safety is n sacrificed in the work of science to advance the world’s speed record: As the airplane at present is most effective weapon of war, due to its speed and maneuverability and with the leading countries of- the world striving to attain constantly in creasing speeds, it is safe to estimate velocities in excess of 400 miles hour in the near future. 2 o Prehistoric Workshop. COMPLETELY prehistoric work shop containing 17 heaps of fiin tools and weapons numbering alto gether 4,000 pieces recently was dis covered by British and American ge- ologists at Frindsbu Rochester, in the Valley of Medway, England, says Popular Science Monthly. The tools according to reports of the find, in clude hand axes of large flint fla! hammer stones of quartz and ! rounded pieces of flint. The discovery was made in a queer saucer-shaped depression in a chalk cliff, and the relics are believed to date from midpleistocene times—t! age supposed immediately to precede that of man. a New Potato Foul;d. GRICULTURAL explorers rece 1y brought from the high Andes of Colombia and Peru rare varietles of, potatoes saide to have a flesn as \'Pi L] low as butter and a_delicious nutty flavor, according to Popular Scie Monthly. United States experts ore crossing the new potato with the com mon American “spud” to produce new forms of exceptional quality.