The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 2, 1902, Page 4

THE SUNDAY CALL the spot where. it seemed to her. she had fnvited public derision. The terrible noises all nG her were. she now fancied,, but Jee: and hooting of rude men who her unmaidenly forward- ness. w a burning face she flew to the postern and slipped out. once more tak- ing the course which had become so fa- miliar to her feet. She did not slacken her speed until she reached the Bourcler cabin, where she had made her home since the night when Hamilton's pistol The little domicile was quite empty of its household, but Alice entered and flung herself into a chalr, where she sat quivering and breathless when Adrienne, also much excited, came in, preceded by a stream of patols that sparkied continuously. “The fort is biown up!” she cried, ges- ticulating in every direction at once, her petite figure comically dilated with the importence of her statement. “A hun- @éred men are killed, and the powder is on fire!” She pounced into Alice’s arms; still talk- ing as fast as her tongue could vibrate, changing from subject to subject with- out rhyme or reason, her prattle making its way by skips and shies until what was really uppermost in her sweet little heart disciosed itself. “And, O Alice! Rene has not yet!” She plunged her dusky face between Alice’s cheek and shoulder. Alice hugged her sympathetically and sald: “But Rene will come; 1 know he will, CGear.” “Oh, but do vou know 1t? Is it true? Who told you? When will he come? Where s he? Tell me about him!” Her head popped up'from her friend's neck and she smiled brilliantly through the tears that were still sparkling on her long black lashes. “I @idn’t mezn that I had heard from him, and I don’t know where he is; but vays come back.” that because your man—be- cause Lieutenant Beverley has returned. It is always so. You have everything to make you happy, while I-I—" her eves spilled their shower and her face in her hands, which ied in vain to remove. cry, Adrienne. You didn't see ro the had s come “No, of course not; you didn't have a thing to cry about. Lieutenant Beverley told you just where he was going and Just what “But think, Adrienne, only think of the awful story they told—that he was killed; that Governor Hamilton had paid Long- Hair for killing him and bringing back his scalp—oh dear, just think! And I thought it was true.” W 1'd be willing to think and be- lieve anything in the world if Rene would come ba said Adrienne, her face, now uncovered, showing pitiful lines of suf- fering. “O Alice, Alice, and he never, never will come!” Alice exhausted every device to cheer, encourage and comfort her. Adrienne had been so good to her when she lay recovering from the shock of Hamilton's pistol bullet, which, although it came near killing her, made no serious wound —only a bruise, in fact. It was one of those fortunate accidents, or providen- tially ordered interferences, which once in a while save a life. The stone disk worn by Alice chanced to lle exactly in the missile’s way, and while it was not broken, the ball, already somewhat checked by passing through several folds of Father Beret's garments, flattened it- &elf upon it with 2 shock which somehow struck Alice senseless. Here sgain, history in the form of an ancient family document (a letter writ- ten in 1821 by Alice herself) gives us the curious brace of Incidents, to wit, the breaking of the miniature on Beverley's breast by a British musket ball, and the stopping of Hamilton's bullet over Alice's beart by the Indian charm stone. “Which shows the goodness of God.” the letter goes on, “and also seems to sustain the Indian legend concerning the stone, that whoever might wear it could not be killed. Unquestionably (sic) Mr. Hamilton’s shot, which was aimed at poor, dear old Father Beret, would have pierced my heart but for that charm stone. As for my locket. it did not. as some have reported, save Fitzhugh's life when the musket ball was stopped. The ball was so spent that the blow was only hard enough to spoil temporary (sic) the face of the miniature, which was after- ward restored fairly well by an artist in Paris. When it did actually save Fitz- hugh’s life was out on the Illinois plains. The savage, Long-Hair, peace to his memory, worked the miracle of restor- ing to me—" Here a fold in the paper bas destroyed a line of the writing. The letter is a sacred family paper, and there is not justification for going far- ther and, in some parts, almost oblit- erated writinz. But so much may pass into these pages as a pleasant authenti- cation of what otherwise might be alto- gether too sweet a double nut for the critic’s teeth to crack. While Adrienne and Alice were still dis- cussing the probability of Rene de Ron- ville’s return, M. Roussillon came to the door. .-He was in search of madame, his wife, whom he had not yet seen. He gathered the two girls in his mighty arms, tousling them with rough tender- mess. Alice returned his affectionate em- brace and told him where to find Ma- dame Roussilion, who was with Dame Go- dere, probably at her house. “Nobody killed,” he said, in answer to Alice’s inquiry about the catastrophe at the fort. “Some of 'em hurt and burnt a little. Great big scare about nearly nothing. Ziff, my children, you should have seen me quiet things. I put out my hands, this way—comme ca—pouf! It was all over. The people went home. His gestures indicated that he had borne back an army with open hands. ‘Then he chucked Adrienne under the chin with his finger and added in his softest volce: “I saw somebody’s lover the other day, over yonder in the Indlan village. He spoke to me about somebody—eh, ma pe- tite, gue voulez-vous, dire?” “Oh, Papa Roussillon! We were just talking about Rene!” cried Alice. “Have you seen him?” “I saw you, you little minx, jumping into & man’s arms right under the eyes of & whole garrison. Bah! I could not believe it was my little Alice.” He let go a grand guffaw, which seemed to shake the cabin's walls. Alice blushed cherry red. Adrienne, too bashful to In- quire about Rene, was trembling with anxiety. The truth was not in Gaspard Roussillon just then; or if it was it stay- ed in him, for he had not seen Rene de Ronville. Jt was his generous desire to please and to appear opulent of knowl- edge and sympathy that made him speak. He knew what would please Adrienne, 0 why not give her at least a delicious foretaste? Surely, when a thing was so _cheap, one need not be so parsimonious as to withhold 2 mere anticipation. He was off before the girls could press him into details, for indeed he had none. ““There, now, what did I tell you?” cried Alice, when the big man was gone. *“I told you Rene would come. They always come back!” Father Beret came In a little later. As goon as he saw Alice he frowned and be- gan to shake his head; but she only Jaughed, end imitating his hypocritical ecow], yet fringing it with a twinkle of merry lines and dimples, pointed a taper finger at him and exclaimed: “You bad, bad man! Why did you pre- tend to me that Lieutenant Beverley was dead? What sinister ecclesiastical motive prompted you to describe how Long-Hair scalped him? Ah, Father—" The priest lald a broad hand over her saucy mouth. “‘Something or other seems to have ex- cited you mightily, ma fille; you are a grifie impulsively inclined to-day.” “Xes, Father Beret; yes, 1 know, and 1 am ashamed. My heart shrinks when 1 think of what I did; but I was so glad, such a grand joy came all over me when 1 saw him, so strong and brave and beau- tiful, coming toward me. smiling that warm, glad smile and holding out his arms—ah, when 1 saw all that—when I knew for sure that he was not dead—IL, why, father—I just had to: 1 couldn’t help 1t Father Beret laughed in spite of him- self. but quickly managed to resume his severe countenance. “Ta! ta!” he exclaimed: it was a bold thing for a little girl to do.” “So it was, so it was. But it was also 2 bold thing for him to do—to come back after he was dead and scalped and look so handsome and grand! I'm ashamed and sorry, father; but—but, I'm afraid I might do it again if—well, 1 don't care if 1 did—so there, now!” “But what in the world were you talking about?" interposed Adrienne. Evidently they were discussing a most Interesting matter of which she knew nothing, and that did not suit her feminine curiosity. “Tell me.” She pulled Father Beret's sleeve. “Tell me, I say!™ 1t is probable that Father Beret would have pretended to betray Alice's source of mingled delight and embarrassment had not the rest of the Bourcier household re- turned in time to break up the conversa- tion. A litte later Alice gave Adrienne a vividly dramatic account of the whole scene. “Ah, mon Dieu!” exclaimed the petite brunette, after she had heard the exciting story. *‘That was just like you, Alice. You always do superb things. You were born to do them. You shoot Captain Farnsworth, you wound Lieutenant Bar- low, you climb onto the fort and set up your flag—you take it down again and run away with it—you get shot and you do not dle—you kiss your lover right before a whole garrison! Bon Dieu! if I could but do all those things!’ She clasped her tiny hands before her and added rather deject- edly: “But I couldn't, T couldn't. kiss a man in that way!” Late in the evening news came to Rous- slllon place, where Gaspard Roussillon was once more happy in the midst of his little family, that the Indian Long-Hair had just been brought to the fort and would be shot on the following day. A scouting party captured him as he ap- proached the town, bearing at his belt the fresh scalp of a white man. He would have been killed forthwith, but Clark, who wished to avold a repetition of the savage vengeance meted out to the Indi- ans on the previous day, had given strict orders that all prisoners should be brought into the fort, where they were to have a fair trial by court martial. Both Helm and Beverley were at Rous- sillon place, the former sipping wine and chatting with Gaspard, the latter, of course, hovering around Alice, after the manner of a hungry bee around a particu- larly sweet and dellciously refractory flower. It was raining slowly, the fine drops coming straight down through the cold, still February air: but the two young people found it pleasant enough for them on the veranda. where they walked back and forth, making fair exchange of the exciting experiences which had befallen them during their long separation. Be- tween the lines of these mutual recitals sweet, fresh echoes of the old, old story went from heart to heart, an amoebaean lovebout like that of spring birds calling tenderly back and forth In the blooming Maytime woods. Both Captain Helm and M. Roussillon were delighted to hear of ' Long-Halr's capture and certain fate, but neither of them regarded the news as of sufficient importance to need much comment. They did not think of telling Beverley and Alice. Jean, however, lying awake in his little bed, overheard the conversation, which he repeated to Alice next morning with great circumstantiality. Having the quick insight bred of frontier experience, Alice instantly caught the terrible significance of the dilemma in which she and Beverley would be placed by Long-Halr's situation. Moreover, some- thing in her heart arose with Irresistible power demanding the final, fl' absolute human sympathy and gratitude. No mat- ter what deeps Long-Hair had committed that were evil beyond forgiveness, he had done for her the all-atoning thing. He had saved Beverley and sent him back to her. With a start and a chill of dread. she thought: “What if it is already too late!” But her nature could not hesitate. To feel the demand of an exigency was to act. She snatched a wrap from its peg on the wall and ran as fast as she could to the fort. People who met her flying along wondered, staring after her, what could be urging her so that she saw nobody, checked herself for nothing. ran splashing through the puddles in the street, gazing ahead of her, as if pursulng some flying object from which she Gared not turn her eyes. And there was, indeed, a call for her ut- moest power of flight if she would be of any assistance to Long-Hair, who even then stood bound to a stake in the fort's area, while a platoon of riflemen. those unerring shots from Kentucky and Vir- ginia, were ready to make a target of him &t a range of but twenty yards. Beverley, greatly handicapped by the fact that the fresh scalp of a white man hung at Lone-Hair's beit, had exhausted every possible argument to avert or miti- gale the sentence promptly spoken by the court martial of which Colonel Clark was the ruling spirit. He had succeeded barely to the extent of turning the mode of exe- cution from tomahawking to shooting. All the officers in the fort approved killing the prisonei, and it was difficuit for Colo- nel Clark to prevent the men from making outrageous assaults upon him, so exasper- ated were they at the sight of the scalp. Oncle Jazon proved to be one of the most refractory among those who de- manded tomahawking and scalping as the only treatment due Long-Hair. The re- pulsive savage stood up before them stolid, resolute, defiant, proudly flaunting the badge which testified to his horrible efficiency as an emissary of Hamilton's. It had been left in his belt by Clark’s or- der, as the best justification of his doom. “L’' me hack ’'is damned head.” Oncle Jazon pleaded. “I jes’ hankers to chop a hole inter it. An’ besides I want ‘is scalp to hang up wi’ mine an’ that'n o’ the In- jun what scelped me. He kicked me in the ribs, the stinkin’ varmint.” : Beverley pleaded eloquently and well, but even the genial Major Helm laughed at his sentiment of gratitude to a savage who at best but relented at the last mo- ment, for Alice’s sake, and concluded not to sell him to Hamilton. It is due to the British commander to record here that he most positively and with what appeared to be high sincerity denied the charge of having offered rewards for the taking of human scalps. He declared that his pur- poses and practices were humane, and that while he did use the Indians as mili- tary allies, his orders to them were that they must forego cruel modes of warfare and refrain from savage outrage ‘upon prisoners. Certainly the weight of contemporary testi- mony seems overwhelmingly against him, but we enter his denial. Long-Hair himself, however, taunted him with ac- cusations of unfaithfulness in carrying out some very inhuman contracts, and to add a terrible sting, volunteered the statement that poor Barlow's scalp had served his turn in the place of Beverley's. ‘With conditions so hideous to contend against, Beverley, of course, had no pos- sible means of succoring the condemned savage. “Him'a Kkickin’ yer ribs clean inter ye an’ a makin’ ye run the ga'ntlet, an’ here ye air a tryin’ to save ’'is life,” whined Oncle Jazon. “W'’y, man, I thought ye hed some senterments! Dash ’is Injin liver, I kin feel them kicks what he gave me till yit. Ventrebleu! que diable vou- lez-vous?” . Clark simply pushed Beverley's plead- ings aside as not worth a moment's con- sideration. He easily felt the fine bit of I couldn’t gratitude at the bottom of it all; but there was too much in the other side of the balance. Justice, the discipline and confidence of his little army, and the claim of the women and children on the frontier demanded firmness in dealing with a case like Long-Hair's. *No, no.” he sald to Beverley; “I would do anything in the world for you, Fitz, except to swerve an inch from duty to my country and the defenseless people down yonder in Kentucky. 1 can’t de it. There's no use to press the matter fur- ther. The die is cast. That brute's got to be killed, and killed dead. Look at him —look at that ecalp! 1'd have him killed if 7 dropped dead for it the next instant.” Beverley shuddered. The argument was horribly convincing and yet, somehow, the desire to save Long-Hair overbore everything else in his mind. He could not ceasé his efforts; it seemed to him as if he were pleading for Alice herself. Captain Farnsworth, strange to say, was the only man in the fort who leaned to Beverley’s side; but he was reticent, doubtless feeling that his position as a British prisoner gave him no right to speak, especially when every lip around him was muttering something about *in- famous scalp buyers and Indian parti- sans,” with whom he was prominently counted by the speakers. As Clark had said, the dic was cast. Long-Halr, bound to a stake, the scalp still aangling at his side, grimly faced his executioners, who were eager to fire. He appeared to be proud of the fact that he was going to be killed. “One thing 1 can say of him,” Helm remarked to Beverjey; ‘he's the grand- est specimen of the animal—I might say the brute—man that I ever saw, red, white or black. Just look at his body and limbs! Those muscles are perfectly marvelous,” “He saved my life, and I must stand here and see him murdered,” the young man replied with intense bitterness. It was all that he could think, all that he could say. He felt inefficient and de- Jected, almost desperate. Clark himself, not willing to cast re- sponsibility upon a subordinate, made ready to give the fatal order. Turning to Long-Hair, he demanded of him as well as he could in the Indian dialect, of which he had a smattering, what he had to sav_at his last moment, The Indian straightened his already up- right form and, by a strong bulging of his muscles, snapped the thongs that bound him. Evidently he had not tried thus to free himself: it was rather a spasmodic expression of savage dignity. and pride. One arm and both his legs still were partially confined by his bonds, but his right hand he lifted, with a ges- ture of immense self-satisfaction, and pointed at Hamilton. “Indian brave; white man coward,” he said, scowling scornfully, ‘“Long-Halr tell truth: white man lle, damn!"” Hamilton's countenance did not change its calm, cold expression. Long-Hair gazed at him fixedly for a long moment, his eyes flashing most concentrated hate and contempt. Then he tore the scalp from his belt and flung it with great force straight toward the captive Gover- ncr's face. It fell short, but the look that went with it did not, and Hamilton recolled. At that moment Alice arrived. Her coming was just in time to interrupt Clark, who had turned to the waiting platoon with the order of death on his lips. She made no noise, save the flutter- ing of her skirts, and her loud and rapid panting on account of her long, hard run. She sprang before Long-Hair and faced the platoon. “You cannot, you shall not kill this man!"” she cried in a voice loaded with excitement. “Put away those guns!" Woman never looked more thrillingly beautiful to man than she did just then to all those rough, stern backwoodsmen. During her flight her hair had fallen down, and it glimmered like soft sunlight around her face. Something compelling flashed out of her eyes, an expression be- tween a triumphant smile and a ray of irresistible beseechment. It took Colonel Clark’'s breath when he turned and saw her standing there and heard her words. “‘This man saved Lieutenant Beverley’s life,” she presently added, getting better control of her voice and sending into it a thriiling timbre: ‘“you shall not ha him—you must not do jt!" F Beverley was astounded when he saw her, the thing was so unexpected, so dar- ing, and done with such high, imperious force; still it was but a realization of what he had imagined she would be upon occasion. He stood gazing at her, as did all the rest, while she faced Clark and the platoon of rifiemen. To hear his own name pass her quivering 1ips, in that tone and in that connection, seemed to him a consecration. “Would you be more savage than your Indian prisoner?’ she went on, “less grateful than he for a life saved? I did him a small, a very small service once, and in memory of that he saved Lieu- tenant Beverley's life, because—because —"" She faltered for a single breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness, “because Lieutenant Beveriey loved me, and because I loved him. This Indian Long-Hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest pas- sion. You white men should be ashamed to fall below his standard.” Her words went home. It was as if the beauty of her face, the magnetism of her lissome and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of her eyes and the passion- ate appeal of her voice gava what she said a new and irresistible forca of truth. When she spoke of Beverley’s love for her, and declared her love for him, there was not a manly heart in all the garri- son that did not suddenly beat quicker ‘and feel a strange, sweet waft of ten- derness. A mother somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a sweetheart, called through that wvoice of absolute woman- hood. “‘Beverley, what can I do?” muttered Clark, his bronze face as pale as it could possibly become. “Do!” thundered Beverley, “do! cannot murder that man. Hamilton is the man you should shoot! He offered large rewards, he inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and the cupidity of poor wild men like the one standin; yonder. Yet you take him prisoner an treat him with dl!tlng\llshed considera~ tion. Hamilton offered a large sum for me taken alive, a smaller one for my scalp. Long-Hair ved me. You let Hamilton stand yondér in perfect safety while you shoot the Indian. Shame on you, Colonel Clark! Shame on you, if you'do it.” Alice stood looking at the stalwart com- mander while Beverley was pouring forth his torrent of scathing reference to Ham- You ilton, and she quickly saw that Clark was moved. The moment was ripe for the finishing stroke. They say it is gen- ius that avails itself of opportunity. Bev- erley Knew the fight was won when he saw what foliowed. Alice suddenly left - Lunfi‘mmr and ran to Colonel Clark. who felt her warm, strong arms loop around him for a single point of time never to be effaced from his memory; then he saw her kneeling at his feet, her hands up- stretched, her face a glorious prayer, while she pleaded the Indian’s cause and won it. % - Doubtless, while we all rather feel that Clark was weak to be thus swayed by a girl, we cannot quite blame him. Alice’s flag was over him; he heard her history from Beverley’s cunning lips; he actually believed that Hamilton was the real cul- prit, and besides he felt.not a little nau- seated with executing Indians. A goo excuse to have an end of it all did not g0 begging. But Long-Hair was barely gone over the horizon from the fort, as free and as villainous a savage as ever trod the earth, when a discovery made by Oncle Jazon caused Clark to hate himself for what he had done. The old scout picked u Long-Hair had flung at Hamiiton and ex- amined it with odious curiosity. He had lingered on the spot with no other pur- pose than to get possession of that ghast- Iy relic. Bince losing his own scaip the subject af crownlocks had grown upon his mind until its fascination was irresistible. He studied the hair of every person he saw, as a_ physiognomist studies faces. He held the gruesome thing up before him, scrutinizing it with the expression of a connoisseur who has discovered on a grimy canvas the signature of an old master. ‘‘Sac’ bleu!” he presently broke forth. “Well. I'll be— "Look’ee yer, George Clark! Come yer an’ look; ye've been sold ag’in. Take a squint, if ye please.” Colonel Clark, with his hands crossed behind him, his face thoughtfully con- tracted, was walking slowly to and fro a little way off. He turned about when Oncle Jazon spcke. “What now, Jazon?” “A mighty heap right now, that's what; come yer an’ let me show ye. Yer a fine sort o’ eefit, now ain’t ye!" . The two men walked toward each other and met. Oncle Jazon held up the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the in- dex finger of the other. ““This here scalp come off'n Rene de Ronville's head.” “And who is he?” “Who's he? Ye may well ax thet. He wuz a Frenchman. He wuz a fine young feller o’ this town. He killed a corp'ral o’ Hamilton’s an’ tuck ter the woods a month or two ago. Hamilton offered a lot o’ money for 'im or 'is scalp, an’ Long- Hair went in fer gittin' it. Now ye knows the whole racket. An’ ye lets that Injun go. An’ thet same Injun he mighty nigh kicked my ribs inter my stomach!” Oncle Jazon’s feelings were visible and audible; but Clark could not resent the contempt of ‘the old man's looks and words. He felt that he deserved far more than he was receiving. Nor was Oncle Jazon wrong. Rene de Ronville never came back to little Adrienne Bourcier, al- though, being kept entirely ignorant of her lover's fate, she waited and dreamed and hoped throughout more than two years, after which there is no further rec- ord of her life. Clark, Beverley and Oncle Jazon con- sulted together and agreed among them- selves that they would hold profoundly secret the story of the scalp. To have made it public would have exasperated the creoles and set them violently against Clark, a thing heavy with disaster for all his future plans. As it was, the re- lease of Long-Hair caused a great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk. Even Beverley now felt that the execution or- dered by the commander ought to have been sternly carried out. A day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed forever by a bit of confidence on the part of Oncle Jazon when Beverley dropped into his hut one evening to have a smoke with him. The rain,was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it. Up from the south poured one of those balmy, accidental wind floods sometimes due in February on the Wabash, full of tropical dream-hints, yet edged with a winter _chill that smacks of treachery. Oncle Jazon was unusually talkative; he may have had a deep draught of lquor; at all events, Beverley had little room for ein’ as It's t’ Ixt us, as is bos- l"l' the old f ly sald, s| 50 He Sicked ¥ down his buhch of “J hev been a add e more to keep company o' mine an' ‘fhe tothers.” He separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and added, with a heinous chuckle: ““Thisn's Long-Hair's!” g And so it was. Beverley knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to go. “W'en they Kkicks yer Oncle Jazon's ribs,” the old man added, “they'd jes' as well lay down an’ give up, for he's goin’ to_salervate 'em.” Then, after Beverley had passed out of the cabin, Oncle Jazon chirruped after him: “Mebbe ye'd better mot tell leetle Alice. The pore leetle gal hev hed worry "nough.” the scalp which CHAPTER XXII. CLARK ADVISES ALICE. A few days after the surrender of Ham- fiton a large boat, the Willing, arrived from Kaskaskia. It was well manned and heavily armed. Clark fitted it out before beginning his march and expected it to be of great assistance to him in the reduction of the fort, but the high wat- ers and the floating driftwood delayed its progress, so_that its disappointed crew saw Alice's flag floating bright and high when their eyes first looked upon the dull little town from far down the swollen river. There was much rejoicing, how- ever, when they came ashore and were enthusiastically greeted by the garrison and populace. A courier whom they pick- ed up on the Ohio came with them. He bore dispatches from Governor Henry of Virginia to Clark and a letter for Bev- erley from his father. With them ap- red also Simon Kenton, iremly to the elight of Oncle Jazon, who had wor- ried much about his friend since their last fredaine—as he /called it—with the In- dians. Meantime an expedition under Captain Helm had been sent up the river with the purpose of capturing a British fiotilla from Detroit. Gaspard Roussillon, immediately after Clark’s victory, thought he saw a good opening favorable to festivity at the river house, for which he soon began to make some of his most ostenta- tious preparations. Fate, however, as usual in his case, interfered. Fate seemed to like pulling the big French- man’s ear now and again as if to re- mind him ot the fact—which he was apt o forget—that he lacked something of omnipotence. “Zift! Je wi tout le mond and bustling A scout troi ner un banquet a " he cried, hustling d thither. “the ‘r)lv;r an'n;n;milela the approach ilip Dejean witl . flotitiu richly laden, and what little in- terest may, nave been gathering in the dircetion of M, Roussillon’s festal propo- sition vanished like the flame of a lamp in a puff of wind when this news reached Cotonel Clark and became known in the town. Beverley and Alice sat together in the main Toom of the Roussilion cabin—you could scarcely find them separated dur- ing those happy days—and Alice was singing to the soft tinkle of a guitar a creole “ditty with a merry smack in its scarcely intelligible nonsense. She knew nothing mbout music beyond what M. Roussillon, a_jack of all trades, had been able to teach her—a few simple chords: to accompany her songs, picked up at haphazard. But her voice, like her face and form, Irradiated witchery. It was sweet, firm, deep, with something haunt- ing in it—the tone of a hermit thrush, marvelously pure and clear, carried through a gay strain like the mocking bird's. Of course, Beverley thought it di- vine; and when a message came from Colonel Clark bidding him report for duty at once, he felt an impulse toward mu- tiny of the rankest sort. He did not dream that a military expedition could e on hand; but upon reaching headquar- ters, the first thing he heard was: “Report to Captain Helm. You are to go_with him up the river and intercept a British force. Move lively. Helm is waiting for you probably.” There was no time for explanations. Evidently Clark expected neither ques- tions nor delay. Beverley's love of adven- ture and his patriotic desire to serve his country came to his aid vigorously enough; still, with Alice's love song ring- ing in his heart, there was a cord pull- ing him back from duty to the sweetest of all life's joys. Helm was already at the landing, where a little fleet of boats was being prepared. A thousand things had to be done In short order. All hands were stimulated to highest exertion with the thought of another fight. Swivels were mounted in boats, ammunition and provisions stored abundantly, flags hoisted and oars dip- ped. Never wad an expedition of so great importance more swiftly organized and set in motion, nor did one ever have a more prosperous voyage or completer tri- umph. Philip Dejean, Justice of Detroit, with his men, boats and rich cargo, was captured easily, with not a shot fired, nor a drop of biood spilled in doing it. If Alice could have known all this be- fore it happened she would probably have saved herself from the mortifica- tion of a rebuke administered very kind- ly, but not the less thoroughly, by Col- onel Clark. The rumor came to her—a brilliant cre- ole rumor, duly inflated—that_an over- whelming 'British force was descending the river, and ‘that Beverley with a few men, not “sufficient to base the expedi- tion on a respectable forlorn hope, would be sent to meet them. Her nature, as was its wont, flared-into high indignation. What right 'had Colonel Clark to send her lover away to be killed just at the time when he was all the whole world to her Nothlns could be more outrag- eous. She would not suffer it to be done —not she! Colonel Clark gréeted her pleasantly, when she came somewhat abruptly to him, where he was directing a squad of men at work making some repairs in the picketing of the fort. He did not observe er excitement until she began to speak, 2nd then it was noticeable only, and not very strongly, in her tone. She forgot’to speak English, and her French was Greek to him. “I am glad to ses you, mademoiselle,” he said, rather inconsequently, lifting his hat and bowing with rough grace, while he extended his right hand cordially. “You have something to say to me? Come with me to my office.” She barely touched his fingers. “Yes; 1 have something to say to you. I can tell it here,” she safd, speaking English now with softest creole accent. “I wanted—I came to—'" Tt was not so easy as she had Imagined it would be to utter what she had in mind. Clark’s steadfast, Inscrutable eyes. kindly yet not altogether sympathetic, met her own and beat them down. Her voice failed. lfiia offered her his arm and gravely said: ] “We will go to my office. 1 see that you have some jmportant communicatfon 1o make. There are too many ears here.” Of a sudden she felt 1 nning home. Somehow the s mtionm upon her with & most embarrassing effect. She did not take Clark’s arm, and she began to tremble. He appeared unconscious of this, and probably was, for his mind had a fine tangle of great schemes in it just then; but he turned toward his office, and bidding her follow him, walked away in that direction. She was helpless. Not the slightest trace of her usual brilllant self-assertion was at her command. Saving the squad of men sawing and hacking, digging and hammering, the fort appeared as desert- ed as her mind. She stood gazing after Clark. He did not look back, but strode right on. If she would speak with hini, she must follow. It was a surprise to her, for heretofore she had always had her own way, even if she found it neces- sary to use force. And where was Bev- erley? Where was the garrison? Colonel Clark did not seem to be at all concerned about the approach of the British—and yet those repairs—perhaps he was mak- ing ready for a desperate resistance! She did not move until he reached the door of his office, where he stopped and step- ped aside, as if to let her pass in first; he even liited his hat, then looked a trifle surprised when he saw that she was not near him, frowned slightly, changing the frown to a smile and said. lifting his volce so that she felt a certain impera- tive meaning in it: “Did I walk too fast for you? I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.” He stood waiting for her, as a father waits for a lagging, willful ‘child. “Come, please,” he added, “if you have something to say to me. My time just now is precious; I have a great deal to do.” She was not'of a nature to retreat un- der fire, and yet the panic in her breast came very near mastering her will. Clark zaw a look in her face which made him speak again: “I assure you. mademoiselle, that you need not feel embarrassed. You can rely upon me to—" She made a gesture that interrupted him; at the same time she almost ran toward him, gathering in breath, as one does who is about to force out a de: erately resisting and riotous thought. ‘he strong, grave man looked at her with a full sense of her fascination, and at the same time he felt a vague wish to get away from her, as if she were about {fi cast unwelcome responsibility upon m. e o o e o B e o ) FRANK NORRIS* GRERAT BCOK, “THE OQTOPUS,” SECURED FOR THE SUNDARY QRLL. HE recent sad and sudden death of Mr. Frank Norris marks the loss to the English speaking world of one of the greatest writers of the day. As an author he was just in his prime. His last novel, “The Octopus,” published last year, has been recognized both here and abroad as the closest approximation to the great American novel of anything that has ever appeared from the pen of any writer. As a Californian Mr. Norris made a name that brings the greatest credit to his State; and as the author of “The Octopus,” Mr. Norris wrote the strongest book on California ever published. This novel, under the author’s primal idea—so disastrously inter- ripted by his death—was intended to be the first in a series of three books devoted to that greatest of all world forces, wheat. This story concerns itself with the growing of the wheat. It was Mr. Norris’ idea to have the second book a novel with Chicago as a center and the motif of the book, the handling of wheat by the brokers in the pit; while the third book of the trilogy should tell of the final distribution of wheat in Europe. Fortunately “The Octopus” is com- plete in itself, and as a matter of fact would naturally be the most in- teresting of the trilogy for us of Cali- fornia; for Mr. Norris chose as the scene for this book the most im- mense wheat fields known the world over—our own plains of the San Joa- quin Valley. The story concerns it- self with the life of the farmers of the great plains and their struggles not only with soil and against the mishaps of weather, but also against the ravenous sharks of the business world who hover around to tear away the profits from the tiller of the land. As a novel this is the nearest ap- proach to the great American novel so long sought for by critics and pub- lic. As a story, it will keep you sit- ting up nights until you have fin- ished it. The character studies in this book are peculiarly Californian, and particularly accurate and con- vincing. . In other parts of this edition of The Sunday Call there are announce- ments to the effect that on next Sun- day, November 9, would be published “The Leopard’s Spots,” by Thomas Dixon Jr., to follow ‘“Alice of Old Vincennes,” the conclusion of which is on this page. These announce- ments were sent to press before a change had been contemplated. Im- mediately upon the death of Mr. Nor- ris, realizing the great interest that would naturally be awakened in his last novel, “The Octopus’’—a master- piece of fiction—The Sunday Call forthwith made arrangements at great expense with Mr. Norris’ pub- lishers for the exclusive rights to “The Octopus” for the Pacific Coast. In accordance with its policy of giv- ing its readers the best in standard fiction, and at the right time, The Sunday Call will follow “Alice of 0ld Vincennes” with “The Octopus,” REMEMBER! “THE OCTOPUS,” BY FRANK NORRIS, WILL BEGIN IN THE SUNDAY CALL OF NO- VEMBER 9—O0UT NEXT SUNDAY. THIS IS THE GREATEST FEAT- URE EVER OFFERED ABSOLUTE- LY FREE WITH ANY PUBLICA- TION THE WORLD OVER! THE GREATEST BOOK ON CALI- FORNIA EVER WRITTEN! HERE IS THE AMERICAN NOVEL OF THE AGE! YOU WILL GET IT FREE WITH THE SUNDAY CALL. “Where is Lieutenant Beverley?" she demanded, now close to Clark, face to face, and gazing straight Into his eyes. “I want to see him.” Her tone suggested intense excitement. She was trembling visibly. . Clark's face changed its expression. He suddenly recalled to mind Alice’s raptu- rous public greeting of Beverley on the day of the surrender. He was'a “"““i' and it did not agree with his sense Ol high propriety for girls to kiss their lov- ers out in the open air before a gazing army. True enough, he himself had been hoodwinked by Alice’s beauty and boid- ness in the matter of Long-Halr. e confessed this to himself mentally, which may have strengthened his present dis- approval of her personal inquiry about Beverley. At all events, he thought she ought not to be coming into the stockade on such an errand. ‘“‘Lieutenant Beverley is absent acting under my orders,” he sald, with perfect respectfulness, yet in a tone suggesting military finality. He meant to set an in- definite yet effective rebuke in his words. “‘Absent?” she echoed. ‘‘Gone? You sent him away to be killed! You had no right—you—=" “Miss Roussillon,” said Clark, becoming almost stern, “you had better go home and stay there; young girls oughtn’t to G around hunting men in places like His blunt severity of speéch was accom- panied by a slight frown and a gesture of impatience. Alice’s face blazed red to the roots of her sunny hair; the color ebbed, giving place to a pallor like death. She began to tremble and her lips quivered pitifully, but she braced herself and tried to force back the choking sensation In her throat. “You must not misconstrue my words.” Clark quickly added; “'I simply mean that men will not rightly understand you. They will form impressions very harmful to you. Even Lieutenant Beverley might not_see you in the right light.” “What—what do you mean?" she gasp- ed, shrinking from him, a burning spot reappearing under the dimpled skin of each cheek. “Pray, miss, do not get excited. There is nothing to make you ery. He saw tears shining in her eyes. ‘‘Beverley is not in the slightest danger. All will be well, and he'll come back in a few days, The expedition will be but a pleasure trip. Now you go home. Lieutenant Bev- erley is amply able to take care of him- self. And yet me tell you, if you expect a good man to have great confidence in you, stay home and let him hunt you up instead of you bunting him. A man likes that better.” It would be impossible to describe Alice's feelings as they just then rose like a whirling storm in her heart. She was humiliated, she was indignant, she was abashed; she wanted to break forth with a tempest of denial, self-vindication, resentment; she wanted to cry with her face hidden in her hands. What she did was to stand helplessly gazing at Clark, with two or three bright tears on either cheek, her hands clenched, her eyes flash- ing. She was going to say some wild lh!ng} but she did not; her voice lodged fast {n her throat. She moved her lips, unable to make a sound. Two of Clark’s officers relieved the sit- uation by coming up to get orders about some matter of town government, and Alice scarcely knew how she made her way home. Every vein in her body was humming like a bee when she entered the house and flung herself into a chair. She heard Madame Roussillon and Father Beret chatting in the kitchen, whence came a fragrance of broiling buf- falo steak besprinkled with garlic. It was Father Beret's favorite dish, where- fore his tongue ran freely—almost as freely as that of his hostess, and when he heard Alice come in, he called gayly to her through the kitchen door: “Come here, ma fille, and lend us old folks your appetite; nous avons une tranche a la Bordelaise!" “I am not hungry,” she managed to say; “you can eat it without me.” The old man's quick ears caught the quaver of trouble in her voice, much as she tried to hide It. A moment later he was standing beside her with his hand on her head. “What Is the matter now, little one?” he tenderly demanded. “Tell your old father.” She began to cry, laying her face In her crossed arms, the tears gushing, her whole frame aquiver, and heaving great sobs. She seemed to shrink like a trod- den flower. It touched Father Beret deeply. -He suspected that Beverley’s departure might be the cause of her trouble: but en pi n she told him what had taken place in the fort, he shook his head gravely .a rowned. “Colonel Clark was right, my daugh- ter,” he said after a short silence, “and it is time for you to ponder well upon the significance of his words. You ecan't always be a willtul, headstrong littie girl, running everywhere and doing -just as you please. You have grown to be a woman_ in stature—you must be one in fact. You know I told you at first to be careful how you acted with—"" “Father, dear old father!” she cried, springing from her seat and throwing her arms around his neck. “Have 1 zppeared forward and unwomanly? Tell me, fath- er, tell me! 1 did not mean to do any- thing—" “Quietly, my child; don't give way to excitement.” He gently put her from nim and crossed himself—a habit of his when suddenly perplexed—then added: “You have done no evil; but there are proprieties which a young woman must not overstep. You are impulsive, too im- pulsive; and it will not do to let a young man see that you—that you—" “Father, I understand,” she interrupted, and her face grew very pale. Madame Roussillon came to the door, flushed with stooping over the fire, and announced that the steak was ready. “Bring the wine. Alice,” she added, “a bottle of Bordeaux.” @She stood for a breath or two, her red bands on her hips, looking first at Father Beret, then at Alice. “Quarreling - again out the ro- mances?’ she inquired. “She’s been at it again?—sh found 'em again?” “Yes,” said Father Beret, with a queer, dry smile, “‘more romance. Yes, sh been at it again! Now fetch the Bor- deaux, little one.” The following days were cycles of tor- ture to Alice. She groveled in the shadow of a great dread. 1t seemed to her that Beverley could not love her, could not help looking upon her as a poor, wild, foolish girl, unworthy of consideration. She magnified her faults and crudities, she paraded before her inner vision her recent improprieties, they had been disclosed to her, until she saw herself a sort of monstrosity at which all mankind was gaging with disgust. Life seemed dry al shriveled, a mere jaundiced shadow, while her love for Beverley took on a new growth, luxuriant, all-embrac- ing, uncontrollable. The ferment of spirit going on in her breast was the Inevitable process of self-recognition which follows the terrible unfolding of the passion flow- er, in a nature almost absolutely simple and unsophisticated. Vincennes held its breath while waiting for news from Helm's expedition. Every day had its nimble yet wholly imaginary account of what had happened, skipping from mouth to mouth and from cabin to cabin. The French folk ran hither and thither in the persistent rain, Industrious- ly improving the dramatic interest of each groundless report. Alice’s disturbed imagination reveled in the kaleidoscopic terrors conjured up by these swift changes of the form and color of the stories “from the front,” all of them more or less tragic. To-day the party is reported as having been surprised and massacred to a man—to-morrow there has been a great fight, many killed, the re- sult in doubt—next day the British are defeated, and so on. The volatile spirit of the crecles fairly surpassed itseif in ringing the changes on stirring rumors. Alice scarcely left the house during the ‘whole period of excitement and suspense. Like a wounded bird, she withdrew her- self from the light and noisy chatter of her friends, seeking only solitude and crepuscular nooks in which to suffer si- lently. Jean brought her every pictu- resque bit of the ghastly gossip, thus heaping coals on’ the fire of her torture. But she did not grow pale and thin. Not 2 dimple fled from cheek or chin, not a ray of saucy sweetness vanished from her eyes. Her riant health was unaltera. ble. Indeed, the only change in her w: a sudden ripening and mellowing of her beauty, by which its colors, its lines, its subtle undercurrents of expression were spiritualized, as if by some powerful clar- ifying vn:lcan.l e ) remendous is the t of a soul sur- prised by passion and brought hard up against an op force which dashes it back uvon itself with'a flare and ex- plosion of selferevealment. or shall we ever be able to foretell just h circumstance, just lww’ -u;n:' g t when a rich melody IS culmin- l&llll:flu'u{nlulnhnnd ng face—any eclipse of tender, joyous expe: tation—dashes a nameless sense of de- spair Into the soul. And a young girl's soul—who shall uncover its sacred @epths of sensitiveness, or analyze its capacity for suffering under such a stroke On the 5th day of March b: cams the victorious Helm, having surrounded and captured seven boats, richly loaded with provisions and goods, and Dejean's whole force. Then again the little creois town went wild with rejolcing. Alice heard the news and the noise; but some- how there was no response in her hear She dreaded to meet Beverley; indeed, she did not expect him to come to her. Why should he? M. Roussillon, who had volunteered to accompany Helm, arrived in a mood of unlimited proportions, seo far as express- ing self-admiration and abounding de- light was concerned. You would have been sure that he had done the whole deed single-handed and brought the flo- tilla and captives to town on his back. But Oncle Jazon for once held his tongue, being too disgusted for words at not having_been permitted to fire a single ‘What was the use of going to fight and simply meeting and escorting down the river a iot of non-combatants? There is something inscrutably delight- ful about a girl's way of thinking one thing and doing another. Perversity. thy name is maidenhood; and maidenhood, thy name Is delicious inconsequence! When Alice heard that Beverley had come back, safe, victorious, to be greeted as one of the heroes of an important ad. venture, she immediately ran to her room frightened and full of vague, shadowy dread, to hide from him, yet feeling sure that he would not ecome. Moreover, sha busied herself with the preposterous task of putting on her most attractive gown— the buff brocade which she wore that evening at the river house—how long ago it seemed!—when Beverley thought her the queenliest beauty in the world. And she was putting it on so as to look her prettiest while hiding from him! It is a toss-up where happiness will make its nest. The palace, the hut, the great lady's garden, the wild lass’ bow- er—skip here, alight there—the secret of it may never be told. And love and beauty find lodgment, by the same inexpiicable route, in the same ex- tremes of circumstances. The wind bloweth where it listeth, finding many a matchless flower and many a ravishing fragrance in the wildest nooks of the world. No sooner did Beverley land at the lit- tle whart than, rushing to his quarters, he made a hasty exchange of water- soaked apparel for something more com- fortable, and then bolted in the direction of Roussillon place. Now, Alice knew by the beating of her heart that he was coming. In spite of all she could do, trying to hold on hard and fast to her doubt and gloom, a tide of rich sweetness began to course through her heart and break in splendid expectation from her eyes, as they looked through the little unglazed window to- ward the fort. Nor had she long to wait. He came up the narrow wet street, strid- ing like a tall actor in the height of a ~melodrama, his powerful figure erect as an Indian’s, and his face glowing with the joy of a genuine, impatient lover, who is proud of himself because of the image he bears in his heart. ‘When Alice flung wide the door (which was before Beverley could cross the veranda) she had quite forgotten how she had gowned and bedecked her- self; and so, without a trace of self- consciousness, she flashed upon him a full-blown flower—to his eyes the love- liest that ever opened under heaven. Gaspard Roussillon, still overflowing with the importance of his part in the capture of Dejean, came puffing home- ward just in time to see a man at the door holding Alice a-tiptoe In his arms. “Ziff!" he cried, as he pushed open the little front gate of the yard, “em voila assez, vogue la galere!” The two forms disappeared within the house, as if moved by his roaring volce. R A .. e e e The letter to Beverley from his father was somewhat disturbing. It bore the tidings of his mother’s failing health. This made it easfer for tlhe young Lieu- tenant to accept from Clark the assign- ment to duty with a party detalled for the purpose of escorting Hamilton, Farns- worth and several other British officers to Willilamsburg, Virginia. It also gave him_a most powerful assistance in per- suading Alice to marry him at once, so as to go with him on what proved to be a delightful wedding journey through the reat wilderness to the Old Dominion. ring's verdure burst abroad on the sunny hills as they slowly went their way; the mating birds sang In every blooming brake and grove by which they sed, and in their joyous hearts they g::rd the bubbling of love’s eternal fountain. CHAPTER XXIIL AND SO IT ENDED. Our story must end here, because at this point its current flows away for- ever from old Vincennes; and it was only of the post on the Wabash that we set out to make a record. What befell Alice and Beverley after they went to Virginia we could go on and tell; but that would be another story. Suffice it to say, they lived happily ever after, or at least somewhat beyond three scors and ten, and left behind them a good name and numerous descendants. How Alice found out her family in Vir- ginia, we are not informed; but after a lapse of some years from the date of her marriage there appears in one of her letters a reference to an estate inherited from her Tarleton ancestors, and her name appears in old records signed in full, Alice Tarleton Beverley. d- ant of hers still treasures the locket, with its broken miniature and battered crest, which won Beverley’s life from Lon; Halr, the savage. Beside it, as Iy guarded, is the Indian charm-stonme that stopped Hamilton’s bullet over s heart. The rapiers have somehow dis- appeared, and there is a tradition in the Tarleton family that they were given by Alice to Gaspard Roussillon, who, after Madame Roussillon’s death in 173, went to New ger}eanfl. where he l!'”.d year or two before embarking for hngl whither he took with him the_ beaut!: pair of colechemardes and Jean, the Oncle Jazon hunchback. lived in Vlmm‘m-m years after the war was over; died at Natches, Mississippi years old. He sald, with almost his last breath, that he couldn’t shoot very well, even in his best days: but that he had, upon various occasions, ‘“jes’ kind o happened to hit a Injun in the lef u They used to tell s late as - eral Harrison's s in_Vincenn: how Oncle Jazon buried his collection of scalps, with great funeral solemnity, as his part of the celebration of and the year independence about Good old Fatl soon after Alice’s marriage for Virginia. He was found downward on the floor of his him, on the smooth part of a were the n;n%ewed fragments a same letter brought to him Ronville, as recorded in an early chaj ter of our story. The fragments wer: thered up and burled with him. His g:n lies under the present Church of St. Xavier—the dust of as noble a man and as tiue a priest as ever sacrificed himself for the good of humanity. In after years Simon Kenton_ visited Beverley and Alice in_their Virginia home. To his dying day he was fond of describing their happy and hospitable welcome and the luxuries to which they introduced him. They lived in a_ stately white mansion on a hill overlooking a vast tobacco plantation, where hundreds of negro slaves worked and sang by day and frolicked by nlgh. Their oldest child was named Fitzhugh Gaspard. Ken- ton died in 1836, There remains but one little fact worth recording before we close the book. In the year 1800, on the Fourth of July, a cer- tain leading French family of Vincennes held a patriotic reunion, iring which a little old flag was produced and its story told. Some one happily proposed that it be sent to Mrs. Alice Tarleton Beverley with a letter of explanation, and in pro- found recognition of the glorious circum- stances which made it the true flag of the great Northwest. And so it nnpsened that Alice’s little banner went to Virginia and is still pre- served in an old mansion not very far from Monticello; but it seems likely that the Wabash Valley will soon again pos- sess the precious relic. The marriage en- gagement of Miss Alice Beverley to a ioun‘ Indiana officer, distinguished for is patriotism and military ardor, has been announced at the old Beverley home- stead on the hill, and the high contract- ing parties have planned that the ding ceremony shall take place under t famous little flag, on the anniversar: Clark's capture of Post Vincennes. en the bride shall brought to her new home on the banks of the Wabash, the flag will come with her: but Oncle Ja- Zon not be on hand with his falsetto shout: *“Vive la nfere d'Alice Rous- sillon! Vive Vashinton!" THE END. ~ (- Al 2