The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 5, 1895, Page 18

N ¢ THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 5, 1895. 1 | | ! R BY (APT. CHAS.KING. CHAPTER IX. Alarmed at Mrs, Daunton’s failure to rejoin them Leale had tossed the reins to is orderly, and, leaving Mrs. Farrar seated the sleigh, hurried into the building in arch of her. It was a prostrate, sense- form he found close to the inner door, and o after a deal of trouble did she revive. {rs. Farrar had t home, and there the doctor 1lis and min- istering angels without stint and ques- tioners without number, but meantime, Leale, with wrathful face, had gone to his troop quarters and summoned his first sergeant. Graice had not been with the men at dinner, was that worthy’s prompt report. - He was at the post exchange eat- ing. sandwiches and drinking beer at that moment, and Leale sent for him. Something had tended to sober the man, for he came into his captain’s presence ing sullen, but self-possessed. rned you after that affray with Crow Knife,” said Leale, “that you were to keep out of temptation and mischief until you were sober enough to understand what T had to say to you. Where were you between dinner call and g off my heat, s gl od closely scanning Idier. ~ He was always grave and deliberate in dealing with the malcon- tents of his command, rarely speaking in anger and pever in a tone indicative of irritation. Under the captal calm, steadfast scrutiny Graice prninl_\' winced. His bloodshot eves wandered restlessly te stoc face of the about and his fingers closed and unclosed i have made but s name for yourself thus far, my id Leale, nd this day’s ‘work has not added to hat started the trouble with rly answer. King liquor to-d id of you throughot that when drin X I have known g and never knew him to be in trouble before. You are the e beer Graice, and it is s: the whole tr rst man of this command to quarrel with him, Let it be the last time. He bears a good name; you have made a bad one. Another th here ge.” re not then at the post excha The sol 4 redder, if possible, and hitched uneasi e bloodshot eyes still wandering wea: hout, as though eager for any light other than that which burned in the clear, stern gaze of his cap- tain. “I went for a drink,” he repeated, “and I'm not bound to say where, and so get some one else in trouble. I'm not with- out friends here, even if I haven't them among my officers, and I can be true to those that are true to me.” “Such talk is buncombe, Graice,” s Leale, coolly, ““and you know it. You wil r to keep cléar of friends who eive 3 r. You are sober enough to ap- | preciate now what you hear and what you say. Kee ar_of it, I warn you, or it will be your undoing. Are you mnot for guard?” | “I am, sir, and ready to take my turn | when needed, but I can take take no such affront as that redskin slung in my teeth.’ *Enough on that score! I'll hear your story to-morrow when you've both cooled | down. Now, go to your quarte and for | the rest of this day keep away m three | things—Crow Knife, liquor and—under- | stand me—the assembly hall.” The sullen eyes glowed with new anger. The man had been drinking be reckless. not considered fit to work, at least, muttered. ““You are not fit to be seen by the eyes of | gently nurtured women, Graice. Your | face is bloated, your eyes inflamed. Your | whole carriage tells of the havoc liquor | plays. You may as well know that the sight of you was a shock to our guest, Mrs. | Farrar, and I suspect you could tell what | it was that so startled Mrs. Daunton.”” “I don’t know any such—" began the | soldier in yhe same surly tone, but Leale uplifted bis hand. “The less you say when you've been drinking, my man, the less vou're likely to fall into further trouble. You go no more | to the assembly room to-d because I | forbid. Do you understand?’ “I've got rights to go there—ay, or, where my betters cannot go—'' burst in Graice in sudden fury, but the instant his | eyesmet those of his captain the words died on his d the red lids dropped. “You have said more than enough, sir,”’ ) sternly answered Leale. Then, turning sioned officers, who, at the barrack steps, | were curiously watching the scene, he dier in natty uniform came springing for- ward, and, halting close at hand, stood at “I leave this man in your charge. for guard, I believe. Set him to work at L proper trim— | in every way—for to-morrow."” | “‘He may be needed to-day, sir, “Indeed! 'Worse than thought, | Graice,” said Leale, calmly. “Yon will be | At all events, see that he does not leave the barracks this afternoon, sergeant.” And conscious that he had been indeed playing with fire, yet raging over the sense drunken fellow turned and followed his young superior. dismay at the Farrars’. Helen had speed- ily peen restored to consciousness, only to succeeded by a nervous attack that defied the efforts of her fondest friends. Mrs. but Helen insisted that his presence was utterly unnecessary. sharply to a little knot of non-commis- | called, “Sergeant Roe!" and a young sol- the salute. He i his kit and see that heisin E He's | supernumerary. | ¢ wise to take a cool bath and a nap then. | k | “I will, sir. Come on, Graige.” | of his enforced “submission, the half- Meantime there had been anxiety and be overcome by a fitof hysterical weeping, Farrar had, of course, sent for the doctor, alone. She begged to be left | he declared the attack to be no new | m)in%e She had suffered just in the same | way before, though not for two or three years. She seemed eager to rid herself of all attendance. In truth, her one longing was to be allowed to think uninterruptedly. | Even at night this might have been | difficult. By day, with sympathetic in- | uirers coming every few minutes to the 3»«1-, and with her gentle friend sitting | at her bedside, she found it impos-| sible. If she closed her eyes that leer- ing, half-drunken, swollen, triumphant | face came to torment and distract her. 1i she opened them it was only to find | sweet, anxious features bending over her, full of tenderness, sympathy, and un-| spoken inquiry. Do what she could to allay it, Helen” Daunton saw plainly that | Marjorie Farrar more than suspected thag | there was some exciting cause for that | sudden prostration. In utter helplessness she lay striving to plan, striving to seea | way out of this new and most lg,pllling somplication. That the man who had | wrecked her life should return, as it were, | | was very | there. from the grave was in itself horrible enough, but that he should reappear in the flesh, here, at Frayne, where his presence was a menace to the peace of so many who were dear to her and to the very life, perhaps, of the gentle invalid who was nearest of all, was torture indeed. For some hours she lay there facing her fate, shutting out all thought of her newborn hope and joy thus summarily blasted, see- ing only—thinking only—of the peril that involved her friend. The short winter day wore on. The spirits of the younger mem- bers of the social circle seemed undimmed, for, as stable call was sounding, she could | | hear merry chat and laughter again in the parlor below stairs. Ellis alone seemed to share with her mother the anxiety or un- easiness which followed the events of the morning. She had refused to join the lit- tle party that had gone up, as they ex- }vre»ed it, “‘to call on Kitty.” used partly from a feeling of indisposition to any gayety, partly from a sisterly sym- }mn for Will, who, she felt well assured, ricious lady-love; she shrank from appearing in the colonel’s parlor, and thereby possibly giving Ormsby half a reason to t she sought him. iently the young people had had small mercy on Will. Evidently Kitty had lent herself not unwillingly to l%l(’ fun at hisex- e, for, after biting savagely at his finger and t ing furiously at his mus- d pitched angrily out of the colonel’s house and come home for com- fort, and thither had they followed him, two or three happier couples, and catching him in the parlor all unconscious of Mrs. Daunton’s seclusion aloft, were as bent on coaxing him to return with them as he, with assumption of lordly irdifference, was determined to make it appear that he had partly because She had re- | d for an uninterrupted half-hour with | bauchery, would aid her to his uttermost farthing, aid her as he had before from pity and compassion, aid her now with eager hand through thought of the shame that would come to the girl he loved, the shock that might be in store for her be- loved mother.” There was_the man—Jack Ormsby! But how to see him—and when and where! Nota moment must be lost, because, now that Royle’s presence was known to her, his wife any moment might bring on the further catastropbe. She had never known him to stop until sodden and stupefied. Drnk, drink, drink; in some form he would find the poison and gulp | it down, waxing crazed and nervous if it, were withheld from him, turning mad and reckless if it were given. Drink he surely would all through this blessed Chrisimas eve, and at any hour, at any moment on the morrow she might expect him to appear before them all, in the midst of their joyous Christmas gathering, in drunken exultation, demand- ing his seat by his wife’s side at his moth- er's board. What that would mean to that gentle mother whose very life seemed hanging now by a thread, God alone can say. And here she lay, hesitant, impotent, cowardly—when the lives and happiness of those dearest to her were at stake, shrinking even now from an appeal to Ormsby, who alone in all the garrison, Frnbabl_\', was competent to advise and help, and Ormsby had already suffered, and suffered much on her account. In the royal observance of his promise he had brought himself under the ban of suspi- cion, and with half an eve Helen could see that Ellis looked - upon their relation with utter distrust. Great heaven! was she to be a curse to every one had been kind to her? The thought was intolerabie. Helen Daunton amazed her friend by | springing from the bed and throwing uj the window sash. ‘“Air, air!” she moaned. “I feel as though I were suffocating,” and leaning far out into the wintry twilight, bathing her aching head in the cold, spark- ling air, she gazed wildly northward toward the bluff. Aye, muffled in the | heavy canvas overcoat, the fur cap down “WITH HER GENTLE FRIEND SITTING BESIDE HER.” no such desire or intention. He carried his paint, too. He knew well enough thai | Kit's tomplicity in the plot was for the ex- press purpose of teasing him. Hecouldn’t | afford to let them see he was indignant at her or at them, neither could he afford to let her see that he was not justly of- fended. Andright in the midst of all the babel of protest and appeal and laughter the doorbell rang and at the head of the stairs, just as stable-call was sounding, listening ears heard the unctuous, jovial tones of Corporal Rorke inquiring for Cap- tain Leale. Then W' I's voice responded, and Will stant and dignified. *‘Captain Leale is not here, cotporal. Have you been to his quarters?'’ “Sure, | went there furst, sorr, an’ they told me he was here, if anywhere. Thin, bedad, he's nowhere.” “He's gone down to the stables already, perhaps.’ said Farrar,” and you'll find him | Yonder goes the call now.” “1 know, mast— I know, sorr. Higgins has been took ill on guard. He was right out here on 5, sorr, back of the quar- ters, and that spalpeen Graice is super- | numerary, an’ they’ve sint for him, and the first sergeant’s afraid, sorr.” “What of?” “‘Graice had been drinking this morn- ing. He’s sober enough now, sorr, but he's | nervous, wild-like, excited, tramping u; and down the barracks flure like a cage hyena, sorr.”” “Then tramping up and down sentry post will be just the thing for him. It'll | cool him off. 'Put him on.’ "\‘erf well, sorr. Just as the loot'nant . I'll tell the sergeant at once.” Five minutes later the parlor wasde- serted and all was silence below. Now, at least Helen Daunton could close her eyes and planand think. He was to be placed on guard. He would be on post right out here on the bluff. Then what was to pre- vent her slipping out in the dusk of the evening when all the others had gone over to the assembly hall, and, speal him, pleading with him, imploring him to go away anywhere—anywhere where he would not again in drunken mood en- danger that r mother’s life by the sud- | g She would | agree to anything, she would follow him, | den shock of his presence. slave for him, starve with him, be his wife or his handmaid—anything to get him away—far away from the sunshine, the smiles, the hopes and joys and blessings that had been hers at old Fort Frayne. One other plan. She had baut little money, and in their flight much might be needed. She must obtain it for that drink-sodden wretch would surely have none. Go she must and would. Go he must and should, for any day, before the whole garrison—oh, shame unutterable! he might take the no- tion bodily to throw off all disguise and claim her as his wife. Possibly with money she might bribe him to take kindly to her rroposmon and agree. Then before he could spend what she had given him she could escape, return to the QEm, and somewhere, anywhere hide her head from him, from friends, from the world and all. Home she had none. That went when her father died, lonely and heartbroken, two years before. And in all that garrison to whom could she appeal—upon whom could she call? One man there was who, well she knew, would open his hand as he had his heart, and its uttermost treasure could be hers for the mere ukingfiznd that man of all others was the one she prayed might never know the miserable truth that this was Royle Farrar—that she was Royle Farrar's wife. Another there was, generous, helpful ing with | about that bloated, bearded face, slouch- ing along the semtry post was the form she dreaded—hated to see, yet sought with burning eyes. As she gazed he saw and stood, and leering over the intervening drifts of spotless snow, kissed his fur- gloved paw and tossed his hand in half de- fiant, half derisive, all insulting salutation. *‘Mrs. Farrar,” she cried, in utter despe- | ration, turning madly away from the hate- | ful sight. “I—I must get into the open air awhile. You won't mind, dear. I must walk—walk, run, rush in the cold. No, don’t come, and pray let Ellis keep with you. In ten—twenty minutes at the most T'll return.” “Ah, Helen, wait until Willy—until Mal- colm Leale returns from the stables. See they're coming now. They will walk with you.” | © “Oh, no, no, no! Do you not see? I must | be alone. I cannot talk to any one. Let me go,”’ shecried. Then before either the moth- er could interpose or Ellis, who came hur- rying into the room, could urge one word she had seized a_heavy wrap and gone, al- | most bounding down the stairs. At the threshold she recoiled for there, his honest face full of eagerness as the door flew open, stood Jack Ormsby. I—I was was just about to ring,” he falterea, “and inquire after you—and for—Miss Farrar. You really startled me.” | _And up aloft they heard—Ellis heard— | the eager, low-toned, almost breathless | answer. *‘Oh, Mr. Ormsby. It was you I | sought. Come—right in here.” tpaflur. she anything | And drawing him into the | closed the door, reckless now o | Ellis might suspect, thinking only of the | peril that menaced one and all. Perhaps | Jack Ormby's lonf'mg eyes caught one fleeting glimpse of feminine drapery at the head of the little staircase. Perhaps his own wrongs and woes had overmastered him. Perhaps he thought that already he had been too heavily involved, all on ac- count of this fair suiferer and suppliant, | but certain it is he followed hesitant, and that it was with a far from reassuring face | e confronted his captor. | “Mr. Ormsby,” she burst forth. ‘“How | much money would you give, at once, this day, to rid the post of the greatest shame and misery that could be brought upon Ellis and ber mother?”’ “I can’t imagine what you mean,” was | the uncertain reply. | _“Imean that Royle Farrar is here—in | this garrison—a private soldier in Captain | Leale’s troop.”” “Mrs. Daunton! Are you mad?’’ “Mad? My heaven, I might well be! He came before me this noon, with her, with | his mother not twenty steps away, and | taunted me and threatened them. Oh, God! he means it—he means to make him self known to them and claim their kin- ship in the way to shame them most, and tie shock will kill her, kill her! There is only one earthly way. He will go for money.” “He can’t, if he's a soldier. It's deser- tion. It's—why, they follow them, capture them, and it means State’s prison or some- thing for years.”” I know nothing of that—I know I'm only a helpless, distracted woman, but arink and money are the two things he worships. Forthem he will risk anything. I can see him this night. He is th! moment on post out here on the bluff. You know him. It’s the man they call Tom Graice.” 5 . Ormsby’s hat fell from his hand. “My heaven! That man here again?”’ “Here, here, and I have known it only for a few hours. See what I am suffering. Do you not see what it means if Royle | Farrar mm.s himself known—and he is | some and kind, who, did he but learn the iden- | capable of anything! tity of the man_slinking here under that | shame to Ellis, heartbreak—death, per- disguise given by years of drink and de- | haps—to Mrs, Farrar. Do you not see you Shame to Will, must help me You must for secret and mine.” “Itis my secret, too, Mrs. Farrar,” said poor Jack, rallying to the rescue now that danger threateneg. “I will do_whatever et him away from here? n%l their sakes, and keep his {ou wish, whatever you say. You shall ave what money Thave here and ni‘ore or- can follow. You'rea brave woman. give me that I doubted you.” “‘Ob, never think of that nmow. Only keep mfv secret yet a_little, and let me see you before 10 to-night. That’s the hour that relief goes on again. I've watched them so often. And—and all the money you think—even §100—$200. Oh. God bless you for the help you give me! Now I know you wish to see her, and I must get into the open air awhile.” Calling the maidservant, she bade her take Mr. Ormsby’s card to Miss Farrar, then hastened from the house. But the answer brought to honest Jack— poor fellow—was that Miss Farrar begged to be excused. CHAPTER X. A new cloud was hanging over Fort Frayne that lovely Christmas eve, and the moon shone down through a filmy veil of lace and cast black shadows on the dazzling surface. Everywhere about the post lights were twinkling in the quarters, and sounds of soldier merriment and rev- elry came from the barracks. Over at the assembly-room Rorke and his party were still busily at work hanging festoons of green and completing the decorations for the morrow, while in the several house- holds among the officers’ dinner parties or similar entertainments called together almost all the families as well as the bachelors, of the garrison. The children were rejoicing in their great Christmas- tree at the chapel. Thecolonel had bidden them all to his big house for a Santa Claus party after the public ceremony of the post bundny»schopl, and Aunt Lucretia, a arrulous, flighty, feather-brained fairy of lorty summers or more, was doing her best to get the little gifts in proper order against their coming, being aided in her perplexities and compiications by the dreamy but devoted Wayne. Kitty was dining at the Farwells'—a temporary truce haying been patched up between her and Will about sunset—and Ellis, too, very, very much against her wish, was oné of this party. Ormsby was, of course, bidden, and had been placed next the lady of his love, but averted evesand monosyllable answers were the only re- turns of his devotion. Grieved and hurt at first, the sterling fellow was finally stung to reprisals. He was guilty of no wrong. He was worzhly far kinder treat- ment at her hands, and, noting her appar- ent determination to talk only with the men across the table or with Captain Amory, who had taken her in, the New Yorker presently succeded in interesting the lady on his right, and, when the din- ner was over and the women passed out into the parlor, was enabled to make way for Miss Farrar with a very courteous but entirely ceremodious bow. Ellis flushed, but, inclining her head, passed him by withouta word. 1t was then nearly 8:30 o’clock, and the leeful voices of the chiidren could be heard returning from the chapel, and, mindful of his promise to Helen Daunton, Ormsby was already figuring for an oppor- tunity of temporary escape. It had been arranged that most of the officers and ladies were to gather at the hoproom after 10. “just to see if the floor was in good shape for to-morrow,” and Jack well un- derstood that Ellis did not mean that he should be her escort, and as matters now stood he did not desire her to suppose that such was his wish. Even as he was pon- dering, over the cigarettes and coffee, how he should manage the matter, and giving but absent-minded attention to the cheery chat about him, Captain Amory suddenly lifted his hand and said, *‘Hush!” Out across the parade, quick, stirring and spirited, the cavalry trumpet was | sounding “officers’ call,” and every man | sprang to his feet. ‘What can it mean?” **What has happened ?”’ were the questions that assailed tgem as they eame streaming out through the parlor in searching of their greatcoats. “Did you ever know such a regiment?” exclaimed the hostess, impulsively. *“Ido believe we never get through Christmas without a tragedy of somekind !’ and then she bit her tongue as she caught sight of Ellis Farrar’s startled face. “I think, if you will excuse me, Mrs. Farwell, I will go to mother a moment. She is at the chaplain’s by this time, and Daunton is with her. Still, T feel All this may excite her very much.” 2 And so, while the officers went burrying away across to the adjutant’s office, Or. by found himself, after all, tenderin, j arm to Farrar. He was the only man left. Kitty, excited and agitated, she knew not why, had made some comical at- tempts to detain Will, but his long legs had by this time carried him hali way to the scene of the sudden summons. “Thank you, no. I do not need it."" said 1 Ellis, coldly. “Indeed, I do not need es- cort at all to go so short a distance.” “‘It seems to be the post custom none toe less,”’ was the grave answer. ‘‘Besides, I think I am justified in saying you have; treated me with aversion so marked of late | that I am_entitled to. know the cause. What can I have done to deserve it, El- lis? Let us understand each other.” “There is only one way, then, Mr. Ormsby,” she answered, with sudden im- pulse. * *“Who is Helem Daunton ?” *Ellis, I cannot tell you now,” was the sorrowful, gentle answer. ‘Be patient with me yet a little while.” “Yet you know ?” “Yes—I know.”’ “And you say let us understand each other?” she answered, bitterly. “Ellis, I said to you before when we spoke of this, there are secret orders a sol- dier must obey and not_explain. In these last few hours secret orders have come to | me. “*And you accept secret orders—from her?” “I accept them from my honor, Ellis, for 1 haye given my word. No,”” he implored, as she hastened as though to leave him, “listen, for it may be my%nst opportunity to-night. I'know it seems hard and strange to you that when 1 would lay my whole life open before you, I must not tell you this. But, Ellis, I give you my honor, I am hiding nothing shameful to that T woman, nor to me. It is only for a time 1 must be silent. When I can speak you'lt forgive me, dear. You will thank me that o keep silence now. Trust me, Ellis. Can you not loek up at meand say you trust me?” Ah, how pleading was his tone, how full of love and fire .ng tenderness his manly face, and in that still winter night he looked down into her eyes. Over at the barracks there was a sudden stop to all the music, but men’s voices could heard in excited talk. Along officers’ row many a door was opened and women and children were peering out in search of explanation of the unusual summons. Over at the adjutant’s office a dark throng had gath- ered, the officers of the garrison and other knots as of soldiers or Indians could be seen, but Jack ana Ellis saw, heard nothing of this. Her voice had the ring of steel to it as she answered. +If it were just a qusstion on my own hapginzss I might trust you, but itis my mother’s happiness—perhaps her life. must know a?Fthere is to know about that woman whom my mother trust so blindly. I must know for myself. Inthe name of the love you offer me, will you tell me the truth about her ?” 5 *Ellis, I cannot to-night. I have given my word.” “Then keep it,” said she, with sudden passion. “Keep it and keep your love,” then turned and fled within the chaplain’s gate, leaving him standing on _the “?"e'({ walk without, sorrowing, yet determine For a moment he stood there followin her with his eyes. Never seop;;inx to knoc or ring, she turned the knob and let her- self into the brightly lighted hall. He caught a ;limpse of the gray-haired chap- lain’ bending over a womanly form. He caught one fleeting yiew of Helen Daun- ton’s anxious face. Evidently the call had been heard there, too, and coming as it did in the stillness of the holiday evening it boded no . Only on rare occasions or len emergency was Fenton known to call every duty officer to his E;esence. even by "day, and he would be almost the "last man to break in upon the festivities of the sea- son with a stern call to arms unless arms and men both were needed some- where. The day had been one long trial to Mrs, Farrar, and since noon one long tor- ture to her cherished friend. And so asthey were seated about the chaplain’s fire and the trumpet notes were heard and a serv- ant hastening in said, “It's officers’ call, sir,”” just as E seized with sudden faintness. “My boy, Willy! They won’t take him,” she fait- | eged_, and then sank back nerveless into her chair, Ormsby turned and sped away for the office. At least he could ascertain th cause of the summons and bring them tid- | llis feared, her mother was | Sheriff enough to run down horsethieves, and do it without waiting for warrants either, and that damned redskin whom you're protecting there by your side is one of the four that shot Pete Boland. I'll send a Sheriff’s posse here in ten minutes, and U'll give you warning here and now we mean to have the law on_him or you, and you take your choice. Will you sur- render him 2" : Ormsby felt his nerves and muscles quiv- ering. This was indeed bearding the lion in his den. It was a new thing to see a post commander braved in his own balli- wick. Fenton, however, never showed the faintest irritation. Checking with a ges- ture the indignant move made by some of he younger officers he turned quietly to he officer of the day. “‘Captain Amory, let a file of the guard ings if it meant no move, but the first | escort that gentleman off the reseryation.” lance through the window at his uncle’s ace, as he stood surronnded by his officers, told the New Yorker, already experienced | the point of the saber. in frontier garrison life, that something | escort.” imminent was in the wind. Fenton was talkin mpldlg. roused, and the the light in his keen, sfarklin g those of the two heavily blan‘ieted Indi- ans §standing sullen and imperturbable be- side him. OQut in the snow half a dozen non-commissioned officers were gathered in a group by the little knot of Indian nies and cowboy broncos. v, lolling in his saddle, replied in mono- syllables to their eager questions. A brace of cowboys, one of them obviously in liquor, sougi]tto impress upon all within hearing their version of some row that had evidently taken place. Among the by- | as was his wont when | the doorway J: 5 only faces in the group | guard, obeying the impatient sum! that did not seem to kindle in response to | the young officer in command, cal 0 eyes were | ting up at double quick, a non-commis- “So be it, Colonel Fenton, and let the conntry know I was thrust off the post at T'll wait for my Almost at corporal’s mons of me trot- He had little time_ to wait. already, the sioned officer and two troopers. One of the latter, stocky, heavily bearded, slouchy, | with furtive, blood-shot eyes, looked un- An Indian | standers was Ormsby’s old friend, the ser- | geant-major, and to him appealed. *“What's up, sergeant?”’ 4 ‘‘Been a fight, sir—cowboys and Indians. Christmas drunk, I reckon.” The cowboys were having some fun with their lariats and they roped old Big Road off his pony and shot him when he showed fight. easily about him as the detail halted, and, springing up_the steps, the corporal light- ly touched the cowboy on the shoulder. Thorpe had turned back as though to hurl some parting shot or sarcasm at the op- ressor, but at the touch of the corporal’s Eand looked coolly around. ‘‘Well, sonny, what do you want?” “Come, along, Ben,'"” said the corporal, uietly, then started back involuntarily at the expression of amazement and wrath that shot suddenly into the cowboy’s face. ““What!" hissed Thorpe. striding a pace forward. “You here? You officiating as policeman to show me off to Uncle Sam’s | jailyard. You, you sneak and scum,” he hen | shouted, shaking his fistin Graice’s sodden 2 NN~ /) \ v//f/ N N “8TRODE ANGRILY CUT OF THE ROOM.” bis two sons shot Laramie Pete, nnnldil; | looks like a general scrimmage. Big Road's | : camped only ten miles ! wife without a defender; youcur who 5;‘012 | whole village i down stream, and they're war dancing already. There’s a lot of drunken cowbo: over af town and they swear they'll rouse the county and clean out tlie whoie Indian outfit.” Thanking the staf! sergeant for his in- | place a hand upon hi to_the | quarrel formation, Ormsby pressed on face. “'You, you braggart and blackeuard Zvou coward, who left poor Crawford's he had and then betrayed vou liar who brag of b and dare notown y back?” he fiercely ice more strove to houlder. ‘I've no Reddy, or with this the last c. to the Ind i an officer’s son, own name. Stand cried as the corporal with you, crowded room and stood in the outskirts | other poordevil, who can only do as he'’s of the throng of officers. Fenton was ordered, but I'd die in my tracks before speaking as he entered the hall, and kLis | that white-livered hound should escort me voice had no uncertain ring. He had been | off this post. Outof the way!” he cried, questioning one of the cowboy leaders, a | and with one magnificent bound reached scowling but splendidly built specimen of | his horse, leaped into saddle and dashed a frontier cnivalry, and it was evident that ) few yards away. Then, whirling about, he the verdict of the commander was against | swung his hat in air. these turbulent gentry and in favor of the | Indians. | “Good-night to you, gentlemen. Merry Christmas to you, one and all. You've gotone of thosé bloody “By your own admission, Thorpe, your { murderers here, so keep him if you choose, fellows are on a tear, and whether meant as fun or not, it was rough fun at best, | and nothing less than a mad-brained trick | in my eves, and_an outrage from the | Indian point of view. Big Road would have been no chief atall i but we'll have the other three before the | sun ri in spite of all the thugs and thieves like that fellow you can muster in the cavalrv.” And with a parting malediction at Graice he hadn’t re- | and a lash of the stinging quirt, he whirled sented it furiously. It may be, as you say, | his bronco and dashed away at the gallop. that he was first to qu" his gun, but you ulled him off his horse. e men that Eid it deserve to be shot, and I'm sorry he missed. You say there are cow- boys enough in the country to clean out “Damn that fellow,” said Fenton. “IL like him in spite of all his deviltry. There’s no help for it, gentlemen; the Twelfth has got to spend its Christmas standing be- tween those rongh riders and the very band a dozen such bands as his, and that | that killed our colonel—three long years Laramie Pete’s friends won't rest until they've done it. Go you to them right from this spot and say for me there are not cowboys enough in all the Territory to lick this regiment, and you've got to do that before you can raise one scalp in that vil- lage.” In the old *‘All right, Colonel Fenton. days we used to say blood is thicker than water, and in many a tough place we've stood by the soldier against the savake. There wat never a time we went back on you, and this is the first time I ever heard of an officer who would go back on us—’ “Don’t distort things, now, my friend,” said Fenton, coolly. “I mever would fio back on you, as you say, if you were the assailed and the wronged. Thisisa case of simple justice, and I interpose to keep the peace until the rights and wrongs can be sifted and settled. Take my advice and keep away from the villiage.” “)}here's a_ higher power inthe land than the military, Colonel Fenton, and that’s public opinion, and public opinion says Big Road’s people murdered Laramie Pete. blie ogimon says we want the murderers, and by God! we mean to have ’em, even if we have to clean out the whole village. We want no fight with you, but through the press and Congress we'll use you up till there won't be as much left of you as the Sioux left of Cus- ter’s crowd. Take my advice and keep nwayd}mm us.” S And so saying, bi 'n Thorpe, “king of the cowboys,” as they called him on gzhe Platte, strode angrily out of the room, the officers pnrunf in silence to let him go. At the threshold he turned and once more faced the post commander. “Another thing, Colonel Fenton!” and as he spoke Ormsby could see how the strong frame was quivering with excite- ment and wrath. ou say we're not the Sheriff’s posse and we cannot act in accord- ance with law. There's no Sheriff in all ‘Wyoming nearer than Rock Springs. I'm Sheriff in these parts until he comes. I'm Sheriff enough to hunt murderers, and | e [To be continued.] Copyright, 1895. s MONEY WOULDN'T BUY IT. The Heirloom Which a Cincinnati Man Holds in Possession. Judge Frederick W. Moore of the Su- perior Court is the possessor of an heir- loom in the shape of a watch that no amount of money would buy. And, be- sides its value as an heirloom, it has an | historic interest. The timepiece is of the open-face, bulls- eye pattern. As with all old-style watches of the pattern mentioned, the outer case must be removed before it can be wound. The outer case of this watch is of ham- mered gold, and all the work on it was of his esteem. One went to Dr. Schwartze, as a Hanoverian; one_ to a British officer, and one to a Danish officer. The presenta- tions were made in 1755. After the doctor’s services had ended, in 1757, and the Duke had returned to London, it was expected he would succeed to the throne, but the birth of a son to his elder brother cut him ut. 5 Tn 178 Dr. Schwartze and the Mohr families came to this country, and there were intermarriages in the families, and in this way Judge Moore is related to, or rather descended from Dr. Schwartze. ‘About 1800 the families came to this State, the Schwartzes going to Germantown and the Mohrs coming to this city. The watch in question has always been worn by mem- bers of the Schwatfze family, usgmlly by the son, who bore the name of Frederick William, the name of the original owner. The last one of that name who wore it was Frederick William Schwartze of Green Township, this county, who died three or four years ago. He was the last of the Schwartze family to bear the name Fred- erick William. But the name had been perpetuated in Judge Moore, as that is his name. He was rightfully entitled to the watch, and it was presented to him a short time ago by the widow of the last man who wore it. To say that the Judge is proud of the treasure is to express it but mildly. Notonlyisita treasure as an heirloom and’ a curiosity, but he could not have a better piece of evidence of the kind of peo- ple from whom he is descended. There is an interesting history con- nected with another of the three watches mentioned. The one presented to the British officer was worn by a member of his family in this country during the colonial wars with the Indians. The man who wore it was captured, and the watch was taken from him and worn by Brant, the Indian chief. Afterward when Brant was captured by the Americans the watch was_recovered, and was returned to the family of the British officer in England. What became of the third watch, the one presented to the Danish officer, the de- cendants of Dr. Schwartze do not know. Though the watch now possessed by Judge Moore is 140 years old, it keeps good time. It is full jeweled, and seems to be in an almost perfect state of preser- vation. —————— NAPOLEON'S MASTERPIECE. The TItalian Campaign Showed His Greatest Military Genius. In later years Napoleon himself believed, and subsequent criticism has confirmed his opinion, that the Italian campaign, taken as a whole, was his greatest. The revolution of a system, social, political or military, is alw: a gigantic task. It was nothing less than this which Bonaparte had wrought, not in one, but in all three spheres, during the summer and autumn of 1796. The changes, like those of most revolutions, were changes of emphasis and degree in _the application of principles al- ready divined, ‘‘Divide and conquer” was an ofd maxim. It was a novelty to see it applied in_warfare and politics as Bona- parte applied it in Ttaly. t has been remarked that the essential difference between Napoleon and Frederick the Great was that the latter had not 10,000 men a month to kill. The notion that war should be short and terrible had indeed been clear to the great Prussian; Carnot and the times afforded the opportunity for its conclusive demonstration by the genius of the greater Corsican. Concentration of besiegers to breach the walls of a town was nothing new, but the triumphant applica- tion of the same principal to an opposing line of troops, though well known to Julius Cmsar, had been forgotten, and its revival was Napoleon’s masterpiece. The martinets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had so exaggerated the formalities of war that the relation of armies to the fighting ground had been lit- tle studied and well-nigh forgotten; the use of the map and the compass, the study of reliefs and profiles in to}rography, pro- duced in Bonaparte's hands results that seemed to duller minds nothing short of miraculous. One of these wasto oppose the old-school rigid formation of troops by any formation more or less open and irregular according to circumstances, but always the kind best suited to the char- acter of the region chosen for conflict. The first two days at Arcole were the tri- umphant vindieation of this concept. Finally there was a fascinaticn for the French soldiers in the primitive savagery of their general, which, though partly con- cealed, and somewhat held in by trainin nevertheless was willing to «fevote th spoils of their conquests to making t men themselves opulent, which scorned the limitations of human powers in him- self and them, and thus accomplished feats of strength and strategem which gratified to satiety that love for the uncommon, the ideal, and reat, which is inherent in In the success- nation and evolution of ali these elements there was a grandeur which Bona- parte and every soldier of his army appre- ciated at its full value.—Professor Sloane’s Life of Napoleon in the May Century. bls Selsdsan e Didn’t Penetrate. 1 suppose, of course, you have heard the conundrum that the young people are ask- ing each other. Itis this: “What is the difference between the north pole and the south pole?” and the answer is, “All the difference in the world.” A young archi- tect here in town: went to spend the even- ing with the sweet girl not long ago. He was loaded with conundrums, and as soon as the sweet girl came in he asked her this one. She fluffed her sleeves out a bit and gave it up. “Why,” said he, “there’s all the differ- ence in the world between them.” *‘Oh,” returned the sweet girl, “‘is there? Why, I thought the climate was the same at both places.” Still, when you think of it, people who will ask conundrums deserve even worse things than that.—Washington Post. ALONE! No Child to Call Her ¢ Mother.” [SPECIAL TO OUR LADY READERS) How desolate is the marriage state without children! How unnatural! The law of nature is the perpetuation - of life by repro- duction, and ap- plies to both ani- mal and vegeta- ble life. Nature makes bur few mistakes; and where her great law is not carried out, the cause is not a natural, but an unnatural, one. Two loving be- ings have joined hands, — a loving wifeand husband. Years pass by, and still there are but two. The done by hand. While this is apparent from the workmanship, it is further proved by the date on the inside,which is 1754. There isan Enscription on the inside as follows: “Daniel De St. Leu, servant to Her Ma- jesty, London.” Her Majesty then was the Queen of George II, the then reigning King of England, says the Cincinnati En- quirer. _The authentic history of this valuable timepiece is this: In the years preceding 1754 William ~“Augustus, Duke of Cumber- land, the second son of George II, was the commander of the British armies. In the Scottish campaigns, and in the campaigns against the Prussians and the Russians, when he was at_the head of the Eritish, Hanoverian and_Danish forces of 30,000 men, Dr. Frederick William Schwartze, a Hanoverian, was on his staff as surgeon. At the close'of the campaign against the Prussians and the Russians the Duke had three watches made like the one Judge oore has, and of which it is one. The wa‘t’chee were presented to_three officers of the Duke’s staff by him as & mark sound of little footsteps never patters in their ears, and no -hild’s voice calls that loving woman “ Mother.” They have wealth, position, all that heart could wish for, but the greatest of all blessings is denied them, —a child. Sterility is cur- able in nine out < of ten cases. Every l}'ml received by Mrs. Pink- ham brings letters from women on this subject; and success follows her advice. Write her at Lynn, Mass., and bring happiness to your home. Lydia E. Pinkham’s k& ‘Vegetable Compound re- - &2 restores the latent organs to a normal action, and also removes -l:‘veahusu, es, aches. pains. and