The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 6, 1903, Page 5

(Copyright, 103, by T. C. McClure) = had been bad enough. the cowboys, to Vista County turned into & said have Buena for inva- lids in various stages of hay bron- chitis and consump- It was an outrage to have one's favorite barroom remodeled 1 tarium, but it was heap! sult upon injury to have a rsepower French racer flashing over roads—snd good roads, too—long sacred to the festive cow pony. With Harvey Tha owner of said racer, the good roads surrounding Fort Norton, the oo t of Buena Vista County, hed e main attraction. When his physt s had ordered Colo- Tado air Thatche: stipulated that sec- tion of Bastern ( ado where the roads would permit him to break the already Prilllant record of The Comet. And so it bappened that he and his machine, his valet and bis cheuffeur were thorns the flesh of the cowboy element, e &s the latter had wor t ble faction among the early Fort Nortoa. The cowboys had barely become accus- rendezvous fever, er, e he respecta- citizens of gasoline engine, when there arose fresh cau for dissatistaction. Nan Bearce took to riding in The Comet. And Nan was the prettiest girl in Buena Vista County, or all the adjoining countles for that matter. She had been the toast of every camp on the range, the belle at every bell, the queen of every county falr tournament in which the cowboys had fought for honors after their own peculiar fashion. Her favors had been evenly distributed and her devotion had gone to her worthless father, who ran the one shoe shop of which Fort Norton could boast. A dilapidated, evil smelling den be kept, at the end of the street leading north from the postoffice, but the three rooms behind the shop were as fresh and sweet as Nan's stout arms and sun- shiny nature could keep them. There were men, dozens of them, In Buena Vista County, who would have been willing to overlook the father, mis- erable, drunken wretch that he was, for love of the girl, but she seemed too proud to foist the old man on any of her anxious suitors, The only favor she had ever been known to sccept was at the hands of Ben Heth, a stolid, almost morose young ranchman, who had started into the stock raising business In a small way, and who held himself aloof from the rol- ing, roystering element which had terrorized Fort Norton at regular inter- When old Bearce had been smitten ranch, because of Nan's horror of the pesthouse, and the three had endured the relentless quarantine together. Then the intimacy had apparently been broken off, old Bearce going back to his bench, Nan to her poverty-stricken life and Heth to his lonely existence on the cattle range. All this was before Thatcher and The Comet came to Fort Norton. After old Bearce had skilifully mended some rents in Thatcher’s leather robes the friendship between the dashing automobilist from New York and the humble and beautiful daughter of the village shoemaker became town gossip. Women discussed it over their back fences and at the sewing ecir- cle of the Union Church. Men shook thelr heads around the stove at Gilbert's gen- eral store and the news spread out on the range. Thatcher was making a fool of Nan Bearce, and there were mutterings that boded {ll for the owner of The Com- et. The only man who declined to discuss the situation was Ben Heth and that even after Nan and young Thatcher had ridden out to his ranch twice in the devil's wag- on, as one old woman called it. To be sure, the chauffeur was in attendance, but what is a chauffeur, perched up in the back seat, with Nan, enticing, alluring an, her soft brown hair tossed by the wind, her eyes dancing with the excite- ment of the run, urging the young New Yorker on to higher speed. tomed to the presence of The Comet in vals. Once they had been seen coming back their midst, and had decided that it with smallpox, Heth, under cover of to town at a slow pace, with Ben trylng might prove dangerous to shoot up a darkness, had removed him to his own to keep his astonished pony within talk- - S i garding her with & sort of amazement. | FINDING OF HER L T T | “we’ll put up your shanty, and do your | % breaking, and shan't cost you anything. B’ LO“lSe J. Strong. We always do that for our new neigh- bors, and I guess we can rustle up some -— T 3 calves for you, and you return them when Cop 903, by T. C. M ) hundred and acrés—and ‘that s TOLL0 Sl heve ankiyour Berd Stowar (Copyright, 1903, by McClure. a b a ixty — at is § the travelers reached big when you've never had even a garden T%ze tears :ulhed to her eyes and she s ) and a tiny mite of a exclaimed: *Oh, what big hearts you various destina. b . have out here in this big country! I'll be the stage coach g R the best neighbor you ever had. There's were residents of the rs returning from a busi- ness trip necessitated by the bogus sales agent, which bad involved ry, nelg raveler was & woman from & and to whose whole life e age had been mofl of & mon- wide, {llimitable h end To her the plain was & revelation of the vastness of God's Gomain, and she brooded over it in silent, dreamy conte: &nd answered pleasan: but had vo cerning herself, and Lee an Zelt some curiosity as to her destl They knew nobody in Yied region bey compeny, and & Dews for fifty miles around Bhe had accepted the detaining accident without worry or impatience, and efter supper sat on the porch of the small hotel, her eyes fixed in wondering awe upon the @istant mountains, beyond whose peaks streamed the glory of the se g sun. “She looks like home,” Bainbridge sald, ndicating her with a nod. “She’s that kind,” Lee returned, with the assurance of knowledge gained by ex- perience. He was a married man. They lounged out and took a bench near her. “Going on with the coach, ma’am?” Lee ventured after & while. “Why, * she replied, pleasan rousing m going out near Wallace. that's our postoffice! Just a “Why, ack, you know—store and postoffice to- Are you locating in that neigh- ite near. And you are some of - our neighbors! That's good! I seem to al- - most kn you. I'm Almira Burton.” She 1aughed like a pleased child and put out bes hand as she introduced herself. The men exchanged startled glances at -the name, but they sheok hands cordially. ‘I em Bob Lee; have a wife (best in ‘the world), and four tow-heads. This is he old bachelor who Lee went on loqua- “I'm glad r going to miss she sald. y won't be what you'd call ughed. “Anything’s ‘near’ out e of twenty miles. rter section is two miles south ace, nd the agent said there’d be road soon. 1 hope you're not far there are children near. I ours at home so dread- bought, “Land a I reckon,” Bainbridge been teken up round here “Yes, that's what the agent said; though doesn’t seem possible! Why, it's just I aidn’t It one great ocean of land out here. realize there was so'much—and all taken. But some folks own miles, don’t they?’ .~ Bainbridge nodded, and she went on -with & deprecatory smile at her former ignorance. “Our place scemed so big— *I came from elf—hardware clerk, d wife a teacher back in Ohlo. Tel , we stretched out here!” He did not say that their “stretch” cov- eral miles, as he might. we get sta feel her bors, who had a right to know the pros- pects and intentions of the newcomers. *“We think it will be easler for Tom, and we've heard it was more profitable then ordinary farming.” maybe, your husband?’ Lee she laughed, her plump *“He's my brother—all the folks I raised him, and, like me, he's He's I've got. been & factory worker all his life married and has two little tots, so smart.” “Thomas H. and A. Burton; that was the names you bought under?” Bainbridge queried, with a warning glance at Lee. “Why yes; how did you know? Oh, I expect you saw it in the agent's list of sales.” - “Yes, ma'am, and I noticed particularly because that quarter is right next me; in fact, juts into mine. Of course, I felt an icterest in such near neighbors.” Why, I'm real glad!” she said, heart- fly; “real glad. I don’t feel at all as it I was golng among strangers, meeting my neighbors this way.” “Are you going to live there alone?” Lee inquired boldly. Her face clouded. “ must for a while. I am golng to hire a dugout, or some kind of shelter, put up, and I want to start things as soon as I can. Tom's sickly, and he’s dreadfully run down; he couldn’t be alone out here”; a glow of confidence lighted her eyes, and she continued: ““We've been saving a long time to get & home out in the country somewhere. Tom was never strong.and the last year or two bhas developed consumptive tenden- cles, and the doctors advised him to come ouvt in this part of the West and live. They say he'll get well and be stronger than ever. We got this land real cheap through the agent, and it's all paid for, and enough over to bring me out and get some sort of a shelter, and a start in cat- tle. I thought I could buy some calves cheap, and I'll hire some breaking done and raise some grain and get chickens. They’ll come out as soon as we get enough to bring them. I hope it won't be long, I'm so anxious about Tom'—there 'was a thrill of apprehension in her voice. “He coughs bad at times, and some days can hardly get to his work. Annle, his wife, goes in his place part the time and makes him rest off and stay with the children. I must get them here as soon as possible.” “Yes, he needs to come,” Lee said, re- lots I can do for you if you are alone.” ““Yes, ma'am; I reckon there is,” he sald ewkwardly, a wistful pity mingling with the embarrassment in his face. He strolled away presently, and Lee followed in obedience to a sly sign, and ehe relapeed into dreamy contemplation, her heart warm with the kindness of these new neighbors. “Look here,” Bainbridge said savagely, Wwhen they were out of sight, *if you let it out I'll kill you!" Lee gravely shook his hand, then burst out: “But, Lordy! Lordy! the innocence of it! Cattle raising on a quarter section —and all the rest of it—them’s the kind that fatten the rascals. But she’s good! T've got a good woman; I know one when I see her.” “‘Yes,” ghe’'s good,” Bainbridge assented absently. “Makes you feel liké Sunday morning, and all the bells ringing.” “Ho! ho! I must tell Ellen that. She eays you're a born poet, and only need & good woman to bring it out.” “‘Reckon I've found her,” Bainbridge grinned, sheepishly, turning away. The moon was diffusing & mellow day- light when he returned from a long walk in communion with himself. He found her still on the porch, and sat down in awkward sllence; then he began abrupt- ly: “Don’t be frightened, Miss Burton, at what I'm going to say. My head's level; anybody ‘round here’ll tell you that. I always know what I want, and we do things quick out here. Once when I was young I was going to be married, but she died,” he paused an instant. “Since then I never found any one I wanted till right now, and—and—I'm waiting to be married any minute you say so.. If it's too quick I'll keep on wait- ing, but I'm not going to let anybody else have you.’ ““Mercy!” she gasped, in helpless sur- prise, but with appreciation of his sturdy manhood gleaming in her eyes. “I mean anybody out here,” he amended. “Of course, if there's one back there I'm out.” BShe shook her head, her face one vivid flame. ‘“Well, then, I think you can trust me,” he leaned toward her coexingly, his strong hand swallowing hers. “Tom and Annie and the kids'll be our next-door neighbors, and if you get tired of me you can go back to them,” his eyes twinkled. She was still silent and he went on: ‘“We've been together several days, and have a pretty good notion of each other —and I'll feel like the bottom had dropped out of everything if it isn’t a go.” “I—I guess it's a ‘g0,’ " she stammered. “Glory!” he exclaimed, taking posses- sion of her. SUNDAY ing distance of the machine. Parties who had witnessed the scene reported it vari- ously. Some said that Ben had appeared to enjoy the proceeding, more fool he, while others maintained that he was be- rating Nan for unfaithfulness, even in the presence of his rival. But Ben's love affair was utterly for- gotten in the face of more momentous events which came With the round-up. The H O Cattle Company, with which Ben had worked before branching out for himself, discovered what it chose to designate as a shortage in H O calves, and a corresponding and suspiclous in- crease In calves with the Heth brand. The H O brand was a bar with 4n O on the end. The Heth brand was a dumb-bell. Rumor—and rumor in Buena Vista Coun- ty 1s an ugly customer—declared that it was easy to change the —O to the dumb- bell. The air around Fort Norton became rife with things cther than mere rumors, including some very .bad Whisky. And justice, as drink-crazed cow-punchers sometimes see it, works with appalling suddenness. Rumors travel faster than half-drunken cow-punchers, who stop at each saloon to drown their threats in bad whisky, and a twenty-flve horse-power machine will travel faster than either. That was why the mob that had started out to hang Ben Heth as a sort of climax for the annual round-up came upon The Comet, its owner, CALL. were still hunting for Heth, after having razed his ranch cabin. The Comet was plled high with luggage, a couple of dress-sult ¢ showing above the boxes, and rubber blankets, which filled in the body of the machine. Thatcher explained in a casual way that he was trylng some new roads and might be gone a week or more. The cowboys sent him on his way with a volley of shots. They were bent on more serious work. The Comet shot along the country road, through the soft twilight and the lmpid moonlight, stralght across the State line into Nebraska. At precisely the same time the Overland Limited was carrying a white-faced but determined girl over the same State line. Thatcher insisted upon giving away the bride and receiving the first kiss after the ceremony. He said it was due for excess baggage on the best run The Comet had ever made, Then the great red machine, its owner, his chauffeur and his valet rolled back to Fort Norton, without the impressive array of luggage, and Harvey Thatcher, tenderfoot from New York, an- nounced that when a certain bunch of un- mitigated fools had finished their annual spree and had recounted their blankety- blank calves, the bride and groom would come back to Fort Norton, at which time the damages claimed by sald groom for injury done his property and his reputa- tion would be pald or the Sheriff of Buena Vista County and one Harvey Thatcher Esq. would know the reason why. Whereupon sald Harvey Thatcher promptly rose in the estimation of the his valet and his chauffeur cowboy element and his horseless vehicle two miles beyond Heth’'s ranch. They was forgiven him. f— - HER FRANK OPINION By A. S. Richardson. 3 (Copyright, 1%3, by T. C. McClure.) l-_-\— UZANNE'S voice rose ) T il decisively above the ex- ;fi clamations of dismay. B 24 PR/ 245l It mightihave been (v NoS | worse, and Miss Cran- (VR " YAV [§ tord can mend it. Y N&e?, I N She ran into the hall 5 P==M and leaned over the balustrade. A young man, good to look upon and evidently fresh from riding, was watching the florists at work. “Frank[” VUL “Cousin mine?’ ““Will you please go—"" “1 will, responded the young man, run- ning up the stairs, “anywhere you wish."” “Bless you, dear,” sald Suzanne, drag- &ing Frank into her mother’s room, where six pairs of feminine eyes rested despair- ingly on a hideous, three-cornered tear in Buzanne's wedding vell. “That must be mended, and only one woman in town ;:an do such work—Elsa Cranford. Now, Py ““Where does she live?’ Frank picked up the cloud of lace, yellowed by time, and looked at {t critically. “I suppose that if you were not marrying a lord you would wear a nice, clean, new vell that would not tear when you looked at it. This is rotten.” Mrs. Lynde was shocked. “But this is an heirloom. It Isn't every girl who can be married In the veil worn by her mother and her grandmother be- fore her.” Frank bit his lips. He wanted to say that the average girl who married a title through the more or less fragrant media- tion of a soclal matrimonial broker did not care to discuss her grandmother. ‘When he had heard in Paris of his cous- in’s engagement to this heir of an im- poverished BEnglish name he had discov- ered that, even after two years, wander- ing on the face of the globe, Americanism was strong within him, and he hated to see the bulk of the Lynde fortune go to build up a decrepit English estate. “You will ind Miss Cranford at 213 Elmhurst avenue. Tell her she must do it at once and walt for it. We cannot take chances at this hour. Pay her any- thing—everything—but have it done. Tell Forbesno the brougham must meet the 11:20 train, and the—"" “Don’t apologize, Suzanne,” her cousin, taking the package. “If you had a whole racing stable at your com- mand to-day every horse would be out. I'll use my own mount and enjoy the ride.” And 8o he rode away—past the stately manors of industrial magnates, past the less pretentious homes of real suburban- ites—into a sleepy, country-like lane, lined on either side with small cottages and gay gardens. At 213 he tled his horse to the cap of a near bronze jockey and stalked up the path. A slender, graceful young woman was training a climbing rose on the shady side of the porch. She drew off her garden gloves as Frank stated his errand and stood in the warm June sunlight, studying the torn vell crit- ically. “It will take at least an hour,” she £ald, turning toward the house. you walt?"’ ‘“Yes, thank you.” . He sat down on the step and remnved his hat. Above him, on one side of the table, strewn with magazines, papers and sewing materials, sat an elderly woman with carefully dressed white hair. On the opposite side of the table was a vacant chair. Miss Cranford paused be- fore it, looked at the unconscious Mr. Lynde with a slight frown—and sat down. After all, there was not such a wide breach between the status of a footman in a millionalre's household and a professional member. Besides, under existing conditions at the Lynde residence, a tired footman might be forgiven a slight breach of discipline. She clipped her thread thoughtfully. Dame Fortune moved in a mysterious way. There was young Harry Lynde, brother of the bride, insignificant and stupid, and here was a footman molded on the lines of a Gibson model, with the easy grace which no end of dancing les- sons could impart to the unfortunate Harry. The little garden was very quiet, and Elsa's needle flew in and out of the lacy weave. Finally Mrs. Cranford’s curlosity triumphed over her dignity. “I suppose everything is ready for the wedding?"” “Everything, I belleve.” slightly, “It is a great occasion, with Lord This and Lady That coming all the way from England, but every time I think of that poor child—" “Do stop that nonsense, mother,” ex- claimed Elsa sharply. ‘“‘She does not de- serve pity, no matter what comes to her in the future. She marries Lord Har- ‘wood with her eyes open. She knows the man’s past, she knows his need of her money and she knows—" The “footman” crushed his riding hat in his hands. “My dear, you are so positive.” ““Well, mother dear, we ought to know. The papers have contained no other news for weeks. And they will be full of it again when she sues for a divorce. It is all go very silly. Everything that man can give her she could buy with her own money. The one thing he cannot give her money cannot buy, yet that one thing I or any girl without a dollar to her name may have some day—the honest love of an honest man. I may be old fash- ioned, but I belleve that with some wom- en love still counts, and when it does it is everything—far, far above titles, coro- nets, castles and a corner in he Queen’s throneroom. Silence once more fell upon the, trio. The shining needle fairly flew. The girl's bright eyes were fixed on her work. The man, gazing through the vista of prim gardens and close cropped trees, was mur- muring under his breath, “the honest love of an honest man.” ‘Would she understand the difference be- tween that little affair of three months in old Japan and an “honest love?” Then there had been Madeline! But that could not count! Why, he had even forgotten her last name! “win He frowned Miss Cranford was folding the precious vell. “‘Perhaps—er—you would like to see the ceremony at the church?* “Could you—-" k"Yu—I know—er—where the cards are ept.” Mrs. Cranford protested. Her daughter smiled scornfully. “Théy would not mind, mother. ell a part of the show.” It's A tinge of color spread over the “foot- man’s” face. He paused on the lower step. D. “I'll. send—I mean I'll bring the card over this afternoon.” . . . . Elsa Cranford, In a simple dimity frock and a flower trimmed hat, was caught In the crush of scintillating robes. An usher with a gardenia in his coat was just of- fering his arm to a stately dowager when he dropped something. He bent over and” the dowager was passed on to another usher. When the first man stralghtened up he extended his arm to Elsa. She gave one gasp and all the color faded from her face. Then, with head proudly up- lifted, she started down the aisle at his side. “Please don’t look like that,” he whis- pered. “It was beastly caddish of me, but I do look a bit ltke Harry's English- man—and—and—well, I'm glad I heard iour frank opinion on such things any« ow.” They were at the pew door. She slipped in without & word, but as she raised hee eyes she caught the pleading look in his and the rose color came back to her cheeks. . . . . The wedding party and guests had left the church. Reporters with notebooks and sightseers crowded around the chan- cel. Elsa walked slowly toward the side entrance. The vestry room door opened suddenly, and Frank Lynde stepped out. He bent his head gravely and there was no laughter In his eyes now. “Will you tell your mother, please, that directly this infernal excitement is over I am coming to call, personne propre, for I understand that she and dad were good friends—in the old days, and—and I want you to think of me—an honest man." But it was six months before she would admit the fact, and then she simply re- iterated her statement that she did no§ envy the Countess of Harwood. o s -— CUPID THE PLUNGER By John Barton Oxford. AINTY lanterns by the fthousands, half hidden famong the branches of .he trees or swinging merrily on invisible wires, flooded the place with soft light. There s were long tables, over which presided young women in white, who strove to sell you all sorts of dainty, impossible things. For something over half an hour Robert ‘Weston had been wandering about, mak- ing almost reckless purchases at the ta- bles and playing the lottery with all the abandon of a born plunger. To all ap- pearances his course about the place was very like that of a ship without a rudder. Yet there was method in his madness, and all the time he was being outrageously swindled at the various booths from the corner of his eye he was watching for a certain white dress and a crown of cop- per-colored hair. Presently his patience ‘was rewarded. Far down toward the palm screen he saw her sink into a lawn chalr. He deposited his bundles in an undignified heap on a neighboring table and made his ‘way to the lawn chair. ** he sald gravely as he came up ‘e tired to death, poor child.” she sald, “only I'll be glad ‘when it’s all over.” ““Come away from it for a while,” he advised. *“T'll take you down to the boat- house.” She rose and slipped her hand through his arm. Together they descended the slope to the river and went out to the end of the little pier by the boathouse, where they sat down on a rustic bench. “Well,” Weston sald, ‘“was it a suc- cess?” “It would be if everybody spends money as recklessly as you have been doing,” she replied. He laughed. “I was particulary fortu- nate in the lottery,” he explained. *I drew four bags of peanauts, a doll and a box of hairpins. My last purchase was three aprons and a half dozen flatiron holders. Imagine it,” he chuckled. “Anyway,” she sald, “you've done your best to_ help us out. You're a dear, good he said solemnly, “I knew I ‘would be discovered some time.” “Tell me, Nan, what this is for,” he went on after a pause; “prayer-books for the Esquimaux or blankets for the Fiji Islanders?” “The money goes to St. Agatha's Home for Orphans and Foundlings. We support it mainly,” she explained. “H'm-m,” he mused. “Don’t suppose —y you ever see the ‘orphans and foundlings.* do you? Just turn over the monev ‘em and let it go at that, eh? Say, Nan,” he sald with a sudden <criousness, which rather surprised her, “I don’t belleve all this giving money to charity is the best way of doing it. “Indeed.” she remarked with something like a challenge In her voice. “N I don't,” he asserted ‘with em- phas “There are plenty of old money- bags trying to buy a chance to heaven who'll Jook out for that end of it. I say. for those who are fitted for it, personal work among the needy is the most prac~ tical thing.” “Perhaps a few details would make your suggestion more explicit, Robby,” she said. ‘“Undoubtedly.” he assented cheerfully. “Now, for instance, take a case I know about. There's an orphan, and he's cold and hungry and lonesome. It isn’t so much money he needs as some one to take an interest in him, to stand behind him, as it were. You ses, they won't take him into a home—" “Why not?” she Interrupted. “Well,” he said slowly, “to begin with his age—" “What is his age?” “Thirty-one.” “Gracious! I should say he wouldn’t set into a home. ghe age limit at St. Ag- atha's is fifteen.™ Thirty-one!” “I realize it's a crime for him to be thirty-one,” he said. “Still, that really isn’'t his fault.” ‘““What's the matter with him?" she asked sharply. *“Doesn’t he work? Is he lazy?” “The laziest rascal alive,” he sald. “But he really doesn’t have to work, you know. He's got money enough, as far as that goes—keeps a horse or so and an auto- mobile. When I sald he was cold and hungry I meant he was cold for lack of interest and hungry for sympathy and— oh, hang it! You know well enough what I mean. The orpban is " he burst out ungrammatically, ‘‘and—and—for heaven'’s sake, don’t send all your charity to St. Agatha's, but save a little for the lonesome, thirty-one-year-old orphan.” “Bobby,” she said severely, “ycu're pro- posing again, and you promised me you ‘wouldn't—not for a year.” “An abllity to tell the truth never did run in our family,” he said dismally. “I assure you I won't offend in the proposal line again, however.” “No, J don’t think you will,” she sald laughing. Something in her eyes made him sud- denly slip an arm about her and draw her close to him. “What makes you so sure,” he asked very gently. “I've been thinking it all over, and I've concluded that charity—now Bobby, let me go. And you stand over there by the rail. Yes, that's right. I've con- cluded that charity begins at home.”