The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 10, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ““ RIDING FORIES INTO TITE EA, AND PUONGING LN TITENSELVES L. Z/fia" - = pre HIS is the second in- stallment of *‘Critten- den. It gives you war seenes in Cuba and love scenes in Kentucky as they’ve never been shown before.Does Crittenden fin- | ally win Judith or—whom | does she really love? You'll get this whole | thrilling novel complete | in four installments. That | is a truly remarkable tri- | umph of modern journal- | ism. | Cog es Scribner's Sons. ¢¢ as frank as birds love making, and with as lit- ds do when will have a ldren—I have heard t was her ambition she had for her chil- ve a sane, whole- rry 1d had made a little were almost looked ugly. with fluff: looking behind Ju- tenden and was had Judith turned to see who they were. knew whether she but they e now and ors Wharton the r her ng i out S I turn in?” he asked or d Judith. long, low hill before that Crittenden let full speed for the ng nostrils of the ind—out of sight— doesn’t get back from mourn for him sin- year or two and then—" some one else.” she had so often told d now he spoke as quite possible—even e was both glad and a the hill they turned. tting leisurely up ng given up the rdce y knew. Judith's face 1 t think you are so very old,” laughed, and took off his y when they met the warton looked surly. The & black hair looked sharply d then again at Critten- miled. She must have cared for her companion, Judith or something for Crittenden, knew that most women t Crittenden, even when they ow him very well. Still she d the other things—you r women? not ¥ I have decelved nobody— elf—and heaven knows I rd enough.” 4 t was one?"” she added, smiling. ought you knei: me better than question.” lith smiled—scanning him aren’t so very old—nor , after all.” “No. And you have strong hands— And your eyes are—" she F: ost embarrassed—"are the of a good man, in spite of what > bout yourself; and I would And it was very fine in as you did when we were to talk you tearing up that hill a moment ago.” nden turned with a start of " he said, with unaffected care- “You didn’t seem to be very stop.ed to pull the z gate, and he drove almost at a slow walk through the pasture to- ward Judith’s home. The sun was reddening through the trees now. The whole earth was moist and fragrant, end the larks were singing their last for that happy day. Judith was - serious NOw. “Do yYou know, I was glad to hear say that you had got over your 1 feeling for me. I feel so relieved. felt so responsible for your ha ess, but I don’t now, and it s such relief. Now you will go shead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and I shall be hap- pler—seeing it and knowing it.” > d shook his head. d, “something seems to gone out of me, never to come Crittend back.’ There was nobody In sight to open and Crittenden drove to here he helped Judith out mbed back into his buggy. d in surprise. “‘Aren't kitchen “Hiteh Mr. Crittenden’s horse,” she P nd Crittenden climbed out obe- SCHALBOIS” R a1 diently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down outside. She went on into the parlor and threw open the window to let the last sun- light in, and sat by it looking at the west. For a moment Crittenden watched her. He never realized before how much simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of the fact that never until now had he observed it. . She had been a spirit be- fore; now she was a woman as well. But he did rote that if ae could®have learned only from Judith, he would never have known that he even had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by the subtle change in her. He was busied with his own memories. “And I know it can never come back,” he said, and he went on think- ing as he looked at her. “I wonder if you can know what it is to have somes body such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, nor from your own best thoughs—that you do not imagine her by your side; to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better yourself or help others, that you do nothing of which she cauld epprove, that you are not thinking of her—that really she is not the inspiration of it all? That dg:n't come but once. Think of hav- irig somebody so linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of her throygh very shame. I wonder if he loved you that wa¥. 1 wonder if you know what such love is” { “It never comes but once,” he said, in a Jow tome that made Judith turn suddenly. Her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears. A tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west— Starlight, starbright. “Think of it. Fourteen years I never saw the first star without making the same wish for you and me. Why,” he went on, and stopped suddenly with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, “I used to pray for you always—when I said my prayers —actually. - And sometimes even now, when I'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and I find myself repeating your name.” For the moment he spoke as though TTENDE STORY #IL2VE not only that old love, but she who had caused it, were dead, and the tone s voice made her shiver. And the suffering he used to get— the suffering from trifles—the foolish suffering from silly trifies! He turned now, for he heard Judith walking toward him. She was looking him straight in the eyes and was smil- ing strangely. “I'm going to make you love me as you used to love me.” Her lips were half parted from the whisper, and he could have stooped and kissed her—something that never in his life he had done—he knew that —but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little, “Yes,” she said, gently. “And I think you are just tall enough.” In a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could just touch his forehead with her lips. It was a sweet bit of motherli- ness—no more—and Crittenden un- derstood and- was grateful. *Go home, now,” she said. VIL At Tampa—the pomp and circum- stance of war. A gigantic hotel, brilllant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls and corridors fllled with bustling offi- cers, uniformed from gmpty straps to stars; volunteer and regular—easily distinguished by thLe ease of one and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire aids, civ- ilian inspectors; gorgeous attaches— English, German, Swedish, Russian, Prussian, Japarlese—each wondrous to the dazzled republican eyes; Cubans with cigarettes, Cubans—Ilittle and big, warlike, ‘with the tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with ma- chetes; on the divans Cuban senori- tas—refugees at Tampa—dark eyed, of course, languid of manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, omnipotent—shutting and closing, like the wings of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, photographers; correspondents by. the score—female correspondents; story writers, novelists, real war corre- spondents, and real draughtsmen—ar- tists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet to win—all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day. And outside, to the sea—camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun—soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, over- BY, JOHN: F@X running the suburbs; drilling—horse- back and on foot—through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge grass and stunted and charred pine woods; giding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant school boys. In the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dook, camp, town and hotel an atmosphere of flerce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. All the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in— more and more soldiers—in freight box, day coach and palace car. That night, in the hotel, Grafton and Crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, Grafton chatting incessantly. Around them moved and sat the women of the “House of the Hundred Thousand”— officers’ wives and daughters and sis- ters and sweethearts and army wid- ows—claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they re- presented. The big man with the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the En- glish naval attache. He stalked through the hotel as though he had the British Empire at his back. “And he has, too,” said Grafton. “You ought to see him go down the steps to the cafe. The door is too low for him. 'Other tall people bend for- ward—he always rears back.” And the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the English mili- tary attache. Crittenden had seen him at Chickamauga, and Grafton said they Would hear of him in Cuba. The Prussian was handsome, and a count. The big. boyish blonde was a Russian, and a prince, as was the quiet, modest, little Japanese—a mighty warrior in his own country. And the Swede, the polite, the exquisfie! “He wears a mustache guard. fered him a cigar. He saluted: ‘Thank you,” he said. ‘Nevare I schmoke.’”. “They are the pets of the expedi- T of- N A KENTUCKY ana WARZL -~ . - JRS tion, ’ Grafton went on, “they and that warlike group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the flag- ship, while we nobodies will herd to- gether on one boat. But we'll all be on the same footing when we get there.” Fy Just then a big man, who was sit- ting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton. “Huh!” he said. “Huh!” mimicked Grafton. . “¥ou don’t know much about the army.” “Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a dough boy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs.” The big man smiled with iafinite pity and tolerance. “Therefore,” said Grafton, “I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert mili- tary opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be ‘eonducted— well, maybe for some days :et.” E ““You‘ve got to. You must have a policy—a pMicy. I'll give you one.” And he began—favoring monosylla- bles, dashes, exclamation points. pauses : for pantomime, Indian language, and heys, huhs and hum; that were intended to fill out sen- tences and round up elaborate argu- ment. “There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn’'t say it, huh? Give ’em hell afterward.” (Pdntomime.) “That's right, ain’t it? Understand? Regular army all right.” (Bign language.) “These damn fools outside-volunteers, politicians, hey? Had the best army in the world at the close of the old war, see? Best equip- ped, you understand, huh? Congress” (violent Indian sign language) “wanted to squash it—to squash it— that's right, you understand. huh? Cut it down—cut it down, see? Illus- trate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2000, see? Same principle all through; see? That's right! No 3ood to say anything now—people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say anything now—give ’em hell afterward—understand?"” (More sign language.) “Hell after- ward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead.” Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: “Thanks, old man—thanks. It's very lucid.” A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Blllings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at Chickamauga: and Willings, the surgeon, and Chaffee, now a brig- adier; and Lawton, soon to command a divislon; and, finally, little Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son. “I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here next day. I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for you or your brother—or for any son of your father and my friend. I'll write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty whenever you please.” The'little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he were asking the Kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hard tack, and Crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped—his going was sure now. Before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. Just then Rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat down by him. He was much depressed. His regiment was going, but two com- panies would be left behind. His colo- nel talked about sending him back to Kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go. “To think of being in the army as long as I have been, just for this fight. And to think of being left here in this hell hole all summer, and missing all the fun in Cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. We haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody who does any- thing will be promoted. But it's miss- ing the fight—the fight—that worries me,” and Rivers shook his head from side to side dejectedly. “If my com- pany goes, I'm all right; but if it doesn’t, there is no chance for me if I go away. I shall lose my last chance of slipping in soméwhere. T swear I rather go as a private than not at all.” ‘This .idea gave Crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very thoughtful. “Can you get me in as a private at the last minute?”” he asked presently. “Yes,” said Rivers, quickly, “and I'll telegraph you in plenty of time, so that you cgn get back.” Crittenden smiled, for Rivers’ plan was plain, but he was thinking of a plan of his own. Meanwhlle, he drilled as a private each day. 'He was ignorant of the Krag-Jorgensen, and at Chickamauga he had made such a laughable exhibi- tion of himself that the old sergeant took him off alone one day, and when they came back the sergeant was ob- served to be smiling broadly. At the first target practice thereafter, Crit- tenden stood among the first men of the company, and the captain ~took mental note of him as a sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to Cuba. With the drill he had little trouble—being a natural-born horse- man—so one day, when a trooper was 1, he was allowed to take the sick goldier’s place and drill with the regi- ment. That day his trouble with Rey- nolds came. All the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reck- less with epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, Crittenden merely remonstrated with the bully and smil- ingly 'asked him to desist. “Suppose I don't?"” Crittenden smiled again and an- swered nothing, and Reynolds mis- took his silence for timidity. At right wheel, a little later, Crittenden squeezed the bully’s leg, and Reynolls cursed him. He might have passed that with a last warning, but as they wheel ed again, he saw Reynolds kick San- ders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. He went straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over, “Put up your guard.” “Aw, go to—"" The word was checked at his lips by Crittenden's fist. In a rage Rey- nolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pgll his revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. It was Blackford, smil- ing into his purple face. “Hold on!” he said, “save that for a Spaniard.” At once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, and made a ring—Blackford, without a word, acting as Crittenden’s second. Reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of no mean skill, and Blackford looked anxious. “Worry him, and he'll lose his head. Don't try to do him up too quickly.” Reynolds was coarse, disdainful and triumphant, but he did not look so confident when Crittenden stripped and showed a white body. closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and closely knit with steel-like tendons. The long muscles of his back slipped like eels under his white skin. Blackford looked re- lieved. “Do you know the game?"” “A little.” “Worry him and wait till he loses his head—remember now.” “All right,” sald Crittenden, cheer- fully, and turned and faced Reynolds, smiling. “Gawd,” said Abe Long. “He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're ‘Aightin’. They're worse than the cryin’ sort—a sight worse.” The prophecy in the soldier’s tone soon came true. The smile never left Crittenden’s face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still there. Black- ford himself was smiling now. Crit- tenden struck but for one place at first —Reynolds’ nose, which was naturally large and red, because he could reach it every time. he led out. The nose swelled and still reddened, and Rey- nolds’ small black eyes narrowed and flamed with a wicked light. He fought with skill at first, but those maddening taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. Crittenden took him sidewis~ on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside. Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him. “You let that boy alone,” he said. in a low voice, and then aloud and calm- 1y “I don't like this, but it's in defer- ence to your customs. 1 donw't ca names, and 1 allow nobody to call me names; and if T have anotHer fight Reynolds was listening now, “it wo be with my fis “Well, Misttr Man from Kentucky.” said Abe, 'd a damn sight ruther you'd use a club on me than fists; b there's others of us who don't cal names, and ain’t called names; and some of us ain't easy skeered, neithgr.” “I wasn't threatening,” said Critten- den, quickly, “but L have heard a good deal of that sort; of thing flying around, and I don’t want to get into this sort of a thing again.” He looked steadily at the soldier, but the eye of Abraham Long quailed not at all. In- stead, a smile broke o his face. “I got a drink waitin’ fer you,” he said; and Crittenden laughed. “Git up an’ shake hands, Jim.” said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden’s opponent, “an’ let's have a drixgk." Reynolds got up slowly. “You gimme a good lickin' to Crittenden. “Shake!” Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long's tent. “Boys,” he sald to the others, “I'm sorry for ye. I ain't got but feur drinks—and—"the old sergeant was ap- proaching; “and one more for the Gev- ernor.” Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon. “The ‘Governor’ told me,” he sald, “you couldn't do anything in this regi- he sald ment that would do you more good with officers and men. That fellow has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and you are the first man yet to get the best of him. If the men could elect you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night.” Crittenden laughed. “It was disgusting, but I dldn’t see any other way out of it.” Tattoo was sounded. “Are you sure you can get into the army a: any time? “Easy—as a priv. “What regiment ?” ‘““Rough Riders or regulars.” “All right, then, I'll go to Kentucky for you.” “No, old man. I was selfish enough to think it, but I'm not self._h enough to do it. I won't have it.’ “But I want to go back. If I can get in at the last moment I should go back ight.” te. “Really. Just that you let me know in time.” Rivers grasped ki~ hand “I'll do that.” Next morn rumors were flying. In a week, at least. the; yuld sail. still regiments rolled in, and that afte noon Crittenden saw the regiment ce in for wh Grafton had been v —a pict body of fighting men, and, perhaps, the most typical A can regiment formed fought at New Orleans. of it rode two men—one with a mesmeric power that bred perfect at sight, the other with the"kindl power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, physical, emotional. that was tire ; each a man among men, and both together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans ‘at their heels. Behind them rode the Rough Riders—dusty, traveled-stained troop- ers, gathered from every State, every walk of labor and leisure, every social grade in the Union—day laborer and millionaire, clerk and clubman, college boy and athletes, Southern revenue offi- cers and Northern policemen; but most of them Waesterners—Texan rangers, sheriffs and desperadoes—the men- hunters and the men-hunted; Indians: followers of all politic.: Iaiths, all creeds—Catholies, Protestants, Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare- devils, to be sure, but good-natured, good-hearted, ]icturesque, fearless. And Americans—all! As the last troopers filed past, Crit- tenden followed them with his eyes. and he saw a little way = Dlackford standing with folded arms on the edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed. “That's where I belong,” he said, with a wave of his hand after the re- treating column. “I don't know one of them, and I Lnow them all. I've gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank and gambled with the others. I belong with th and I'm going with them if I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now.” “Well, luck to you, and good-by.” said Crittenden, holding out his hand. “I'm going home to-night.” “But you're coming back?" wy s Blackford hesitated. “Are you going to join this outfit?— meaning his own regiment. “I don’t know; this or the Rough Riders.” “Well,” Blackford seemed embar- rassed, and his manner was most re- spectful, “if we go gether, what do you say to our going as ‘bunkies’?" “Sure.” . “Thank you." The two men grasped hands. “T hope you will come back.™ / “I'm sure to come back. Good-by."” “Good-by, sir.” The ungracious “sir” startled Critten- den. It was merely habit, of course, and the fact that Crittenden was not yet enlisted. but there was an unin- tended significance in the soldier’s tone that made him wince. Blackford turned sharply away, flushing. viL Back in the Bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was bril- liant* with a steady light that om its way from the sun was broken by Hardly a cloud. The woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and under them with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. The town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs Everywhere flags were shaken out Main street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a great gar- den—all blowing in a wind. Under them, crowds gathered—ecountry peo- ple, negroes and townfolk—while the town band stood waiting at the gate of the park. The Legion was making ready to leave for Chickamauga, and Jac since n At the head quiet