The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 18, 1903, Page 4

THE SUNDAY CALL T was a stiff blizzard, even for the Gulch. Overhead the su shone, elthough it was d by the ling of the snow.. The nd swept all before ry, while the December breath flonied that had ex g of shazey ekins, eit e hide, which served ut © rly cold wind that swept £0 § through the Guich thrown to- re a few, whose liv nked with these grace- frontier. They sat able room the Y of ong one-story shed, with roof. The parlor uxurious s gathered in never very A ch her man anothe the big general Finding herself alone, the solitary pas- senger, a pale, fraglle girl, who looked eadly out of place in such surroundings, made her way with difficulty to the tave a For a moment she stood dismayed Je sight which confronted her in the room. Then one man, kinder than the others, opened the door of the parlor and the girl timidly entered the room and made her she stood, £S impressed sve all with dliness of those silent women. She carried a bag, which she placed on the floor while she thawed numbed fingers. When the warmth given her courage she ventured to seak: *I beg vour pardon; this is Wes- is it not?" one-eyed woman answered Did you think where the other women sat way the stove. Th thé surround the unfrie: to zed at A coarse, “Yes, Weston’s what it is. was Boston’ I came from Boston,” replied the girl retorted she of the one €ye. » you'd better get back there k. » for girls like you ny husband. Baby dled the girl sald, more herwise o's your husband?" she answered, simply. in the Gulch man named Paul Wil *“Oh, yes; my hus} here. He sent alone 1 wrote home from g0 when I 1 him, years si b girl, in a tired volc 5 1 ain’t but one Dook” Wil- nd for two the girl, in you must is surely You can just this crowd f 1o it er in the for whom rors of th shelter mys I'll not be nightmare. 17" yelled the “You been me a it you brute, name, you The man was fast lapsing into drunken- —a bitter and recriminating drunken “You're a curse, a plain curse, s what 3 are. A d—d plain and ugly one, too, & one-eyed curse. i By Gregory Humes. l McClure.) as changed 2 better,” a voman eft you un said the smilingly. he an smiled is not mec- 1 she felt true. Her £ her youth ing bud. rked just the the one from his in see the he spoke of his love for her. gray over the ruddy with It 1= hat we should meet here strange in the ve dow of St. Michael's,” said the won Yes man. “It is strange. ’ been marrfed in St. you remember that older alking leisurely up the and it was some moments n repiled. Then she said, ut looking at him: ver forgets the older time, thought that it was different You know that hackneyed , ‘Love is of man’s life a_thing tis woman's whole existence” " that a man notices a but love made this man’s and he noted with a joy- not often han's dress, 1 start t the woman’'s costume was a sort of He aid not an- swer her 1 remark, but sald: *You are wearing half mourning?” He was looking at her with a keen bope in his eves that the woman easily read when she glanced up at him. Lower. ing her eyes, and velling them with the Jong lashes so that he could not see the curious faint smile in them, she sald with & conventionsl sigh: .t - for my grandfather, who died re- You had not heard of his death?” 0, T have heard nothing from any one in the city for several years. I kept up @ correspondasce With one or two of @y friends for & few years and then it dropped away and died a natural death 1 When I noticed your half mournt thought for = < He cid not the remark, except with a sprt of half sigh that the woman nd understood perfectly. The cu- smile in her downcast eyes became pronounced on, this time a little bit- of man’s life a thing and yet it seems that I ent alive the memory of of which you spoke. You married Carlton within a year of the of our chance breaking gave me 2 that engagement and never to explain the accusa- tions were brought against me. T least have so well remembered that I ave never married.” - “] was unjust,” said the woman. “But remember that I was very young and knew y little of the world and of the men A women who go to make it. It can do no wrong to you nor to—to Mr. Carlton to say that I have learned since that 1 was all in the wrong. I would have called you back, John, but my pride would not let me. 1 waited until hope died and then I married Carlton, who been, as you know, devoted to me 1 thought it for the best, Perhaps 1t have waited a long time. ut perhaps I was mistaken. would have been better to and waited.” The man looked down at her in sur- prise. His sense of honor was too keen to permit him to make Jove to another man's wife, and it was' a shock to his memories of this woman for her to talk in this way. She had married Cariton—a man whom he despised—and it was not for him to say anvthing to which the most jealous husband might object. He loved the wog.an, and- he was not will- ing that anytbing should be said by either her or himself that would make the old worship dle away. It was possible that the woman read some of this train of thought in his face, for she looked up at him once more. In her eyes was a curious smile. They had reached her house and she asked him to come in. “Thanks,” he said, “but I fancy that it will be impossible for me to do.so. I shall endeavor to catch the 12:15 train for the West.” There was a cald dignity in his manner. ou used to know Mr. Carlton, did you not?” asked the woman demurely, “Yet replied the man, a trifie grimly. “I knew him, but we were never friends. 1 may err in my suspicions, but I have always thought that it was he who told you the ugrles about me which made you Thoroughly enraged at this taunt, the woman suddenly drew a knife from her bosom and thrust it to the very hilt into his heart. Paul sank to the floor without a sound. , throwing away her knife, the bewlldered woman sank to her knees by his side. ve 1 killed him at last,” she cried, “the only man I ever cared for?" She placed her hand over his heart. “Yes 1 d I dome it; done be always said I would, and why glanced where the terrified girl rouched silently weeping. The woman ose and »d over her, shaking with you came h You And A eful face. get out of here. PP/ her shawl about her, ed toward the door. Seeing the stove, the woman threw nd never 'Taint safe, a moment 1d. Then, , she drew her her a mass wraps tighter about liowed up in the ised enough to say: < rza to dc easier me kill the richest ; have to g the savage who again for a sign of done its work task hopeless, irew open the door e lealing to the outer room, where the men were still drinking. “Come in here and ses what 1 have done!” she shouted. Led by the gaunt landlord, whose' firm favorite Paul had been, part of the men filed In. The sight of the dead face sobered them all. The grief-stricken landlord rudely grasped the Duchess by the shoulder. *“My poor, dear Paul. This she devi all swing for it!” Shaking off his detalning hand, the Duchess faced the mob without a trace of fear. “Swing nothin’; Dook deserved all he got and more, too. He lied to that pale-faced girl; he lied to me. He swore 1 was the only woman in the world worth living for, and I wasn't a bad looking woman before he robbed me of my other eye. No, sir, there ain’t no use a-talkin’ about swingin'. You just make a place for Dook out there on the table, where he ay."” h one sweep the dishes were dis- rosed of and the body stretched out to await the dawn of another day. the crowd was a vagrant lawyer, who hastily opened a sort of court to de- termine what should be done h the Duchess. Scme one then remembered the missinig girl, and a search party was in- spatched in quest of her. During absence the gelf-constituted judge olemnly delfvered his opinion: *“That the £ald Dook Wiliiams came to his death at ds of a woman whom he had de- that the sald woman killed hi reat provocation, and that she Gererves the mercy of the court in order that she may repent.” In this way a court that would have ivnched a claim jumper on sight or a horse thlef coolly dismissed an every day murder. While the farcical court slowly dissolved itself the wrcetched woman withdrew to her room—a tiny corner cur- tained off with blankets from the long break our engagement.” “Let us not speak of those old storle she sald softly. The smile was gone ouf of her eyes now. ‘“Nor can I listen to anything against Mr. Carlton. He loved me in his own way, I think, and, after all, he was my husband, and a woman can never forget that. I think of the dead we should speak no evil.” “Of the dead?” sald the man in quick astonishment. “You mean—" “Mr. Carlton dled five ago. “But you told me that your half mourn~ ing was for your grandfather.” “So I did, and so it is. I did not think it necessary to wear mourning for my hus—for Mr. Carlton for five years. But there are the chimes on St. Michael's say- ing that it is noon. You will have scant Now 1’'D, LET, DO WISH THE ) Ay M HANGIN (;-H % 7 double line of beds, where the men were soon sleeping. There the Duchess, with wide-open, staring eyes, kept her lonely vigil through the long hours of the night. The search party, numbed and half frozen, returned without finding a trace of the poor girl, saying it would be Im- possible for any one to survive very long exposed to the fury of the mountain storm, which grew fiercer every moment. Soon the steaming glassed of hot whisky blotted out all remembrance of the young girl or her fate.® Outside, around the wretched tavern, the wind still madly raged. The broken- hearted gir!, her senses dulled by the horror of the past scene, wandered alm- lessly until overtaken by night, with its mantle of darkness. On the hills the gray wolves howled and howled. The swirling snow piled the drifts higher and higher, but sq silently and swifuy that soon all trace of the wanderer was blotted out for- ever. VAT S0 e e ke Sl G In June the hilisides were radiant with vartegated flowers and mountain streams glinted and rippled in the sunlight. The rails of a finished road wound peacefully up from the gulch. All around was lovely summer apd glorious solitude, with no cien of sin or sorrow to mar the beauty of the'scene. The bright ne of this spl day served to out still more the sordid poverty of a miserable shake- down, which held in one corner a rude camp bed, In another an old stove sup- porting a rusty boller, whie over a steaming washtub bent a haggard ome- eyed woman, who paused in her work to mutter: “I wich I hed let 'em done that swingin'.” Here, after its last journey moved bodily with all its reeking wicked- ness, stands ‘“The End of the “dne.” % NPy time in which to catch your train. Bo good-by. I wish you all happiness.” The woman extended her hand and the man took it and sald: “Don’t you know the air the chimes are ringing? They are saying, ‘Backward, turn backward, oh, time, in thy flight. Can’t we make old Father Time go back , for us some ten years?" “Time can never be turned back,” sald the woman, seriously; but there was a tender light in her eyes which the man loved to see. “If that is the case,” he sald, “we must be:ln_l.ll over again and bid deflance to time.” Side by side they stood and listened un- til the chimes had flung out their last note. Then they entered the house to- gether. ; ON THE 2:32. | By Otho B. Senga. l s - (Copyright, 1903, by T. C. McClure.) R. DAVID ARM- STRONG handed = telegrafn he had just recelved to his part- ner. “Isn’t that just like a school-girl?” Mr. Bralners read It and laughed. “I sup- The message was as follows: “Dear Brother Davie: I am coming to Boston. Please meet me at the South Station. The train leaves Hinkley Helghts at 1 o'clock, and reaches Boston at 2:32. ALICE ARMSTRONG. “I didn’t know you had & sister, Arm- strong.” “I haven't. This is my stepmother's adopted child. I haven't seen her for four years; she was a pretty thing then; about 15. When my father and his wifs went abroad two years ago they placed the child in a boarding school.” “I see she uses the name of Arm- strong.” “Oddly enough, that is her own name. My father's wife was a Mrs. Dana In adopting Alice she did not changs the child’s name; and when she met and mar- ried my father she declared that Alice's name was prophetic of what was to come. I must go, Brainerd; I've barely time to reach the station.”” In the crowd at the terminal he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Bob Tennessee, the detective. “Hullo, Dave; géing away? “No; expect my sister on this 2:32. Got a case here, Bob?” “Yes; a young fellow from Blankton— bank messenger—got fifty thousand on him In cash and another fifty in nego- tiable bonds. The came slowly to a standstill, and the passengers streamed out. Armstrong had not long to wait. A trim, stylish figure in gray, with skirts of ankle length, and two heavy bralds of yellow hair tled in several places, school- girl fashion, with big black bows, rushed up to him, exclaiming, ‘Davie. Davie, don’t you know me, Davie?" putting up & pretty red mouth to be kissed. Armstrong was surpriscd, but he wasn't at all “slow,” and as he walked away with his pretty sister, he decided that Alice had improved. pleaded Allce. “I'm in an awful hurry. “Just a minute, child; Bob wants to ak to me.” “‘Fooled, some way, Dave—" “Got off somewhere else, perhaps.” “No, the 2:32 is express from Blank- “Mr, Tennessee, Alice; my sister, Miss Armstrong, Bob.” Aljce did not offer her hand nor raise her eyes to Bob’s face, as she murmured e faint acknowledgment. “will you take a carriags, Davie, please? I am going to the Cunard line pler. The Baxonia leaves at 3:, and I bave engaged a stateroom.” “You are not going alone, Alice? “Qh, yes; mamma sent for me; she is to meet me at Queenstown.” Armstrong, watching her bright face, thinking it very charming, exclaimed sud- denly, “Alfce, what have you done to your eyebrows?’ He was shocked at the quick paling of the girl's face. h, don't scold me, Davie,” she plead- ed; “I-I had them darkened—they are #so much more becoming—" “Not with your light hair,” said Arm- strong, shortly; “they don’t look natural. ‘Wash that off as soon as you can, child, and don’t do it again.” There was silence in the during the rest of the drive. Alice sobbed softly behind her handkerchief, and Armstrong was {ll at ease. Why wasn't he kind to the child iIn just this little hour they were to be together? Notwithstanding his dim memory of her, she seemed to have remembered him very pleasantly, and she was certalnly a charmingly af- fectionate little thing. He put his arm around her and drew her head to his breast. “Here you are, sir,” called cabby, opening the door. “Shall I walt?” “Yes; I'm only going to see my sister comfortably aboard.” “Please wait here, Davie,” said Alice, as soon as they were on deck; “I'll be back in just a minyte.” She was away before he c He walted patiently until ped, black ha of blue, with goid rushed up to him. able to return, Mr. Armstrong, a this note. Hurry, sir; they are about to lower the plank. Seated in the hansom, Mr hastily reviewed the past hour. He was annoyed and greatly dissatisfied. He had disapproved of the elder Armstrong marriage, but nothing would induce to be other than courteous to his fath wife or kind to her child. He had met his stepmother but a few times, and was really not at all acquainted with this gi But she had appealed to him, as to a brother, in a frankly affectionate way, and he had been unwarrantably harsh. ‘Why had he allowed that officious boy to hurry him off the steamer in that way? Poor, little thing; bow she had trembled as he held her against him in the car- riage. Bob Tennessee was walting at Arm- strong’s office. “I'm sour on all the world, Dave,” was his greeting. “To think I should let that little rascal silp through y bands! I can’t see how It was don Armstrong wished Bob would go; wanted to read Alice’s letter. “I spotted that girl when she first got oft the train, but when I saw her make a break for you I knew she wasn't my bird.” ‘“What was the description?” strong asked, trying to be polite Bob handed him a telegram slip and he read aloud: Height, five feet five inches; weight, about 130 pounds; blue eyes, black hair, brows and lashes; uniform, dark blue, black silk braid; visored cap with gold braid. Mr. Armstrong, departing from his usual habits, sald “Damn!” very softly. This was the boy who brought him the nots from Alice! He put down the telegram and opened the note. When he had read it, departing still mors from his usual habits, he sald “Damn!™ again, this time very strongly. He handed the letter to Bob, and Bob read aloud, slowly and carefull: “My Adorable Davie: I dldn’t come from Hinkley Heights. I boarded the train at Blankton, and it pulled out jus in time for me to shake a ‘day! da: from the rear end to the officers. they'd wire to Boston, but I was onto their tricks, and I carried in my suit case all the rigging for a tallor mal plus the ‘golden braid to hang down my back." I've had a proposing acquaintance with the most of the girls at Hinkley Heights, and the fair Alice didn’t escape. To soften her refusal, she told me she had given her heart to another when she was only 15, and the early conqueror still held the fort. I managed to find out the whole thing, and was shown your photo, which has the place of honor In her den. I dldn't know then the use I'd make of the knowledge. I was afraid to trust to the ‘tatlor maid’ altogether, and you'll admit it was a brilllant scheme to be met at the station by so eminent a member of the Massachusetts bar as Mr. David Arm- strong. And I'd got enough of the fam- ily history to carry my part with you all right, all rignt. “l enclose a dollar bill. Please buy some good cigars for our friend Beb. “I'm telling you of the cinch you've got with Alice, as a reward for the good turn you've done me. Alice is a peach, but she hangs too high on the tree for afy but the very best, and I think you're it. Yours truly, NRY HARDY, “Your sister was Armstrong be Arm- Otherwise—Jack Finley. “Allas—Little Freddle “Known to Mister Tennessee as Chum- mie Charlle.” Bob oaned. Then he, too, said “Damn!”—and said it foreibly and re- peatedly. “T wasn't prepared for this. ‘The bank people said it was trusted employe—been with them over a year.” He rose, still groaning, and reached for his hat; then He turned sharply to Armstrong. “How is it you didn’'t know your own sister?” émltrong explained. ‘ennessee shook his head slowly, groan- ing still more. . “Don’t let my sister’s name mix up with this, Bob.” -~ e “I won't mention her. Where are you going, Dave?’ as e g walked out m“'l'u Klnklu.-y Helghts. I must be able recogn my sister when 1 see he: hereafter.” . But the outcome of his visit ‘Hinkley namhc_-guwm”