The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 31, 1904, Page 6

1804 by K. M. Whitehead.) HE girl of' the “L X. 1" ranch was Nora Davis, “niece of the proprietor, who was passing a year in the far West by the ad- ace her doctor. presence of & chhouse was no Davis was there, ee women helpers, d looking girl ng about kept the ent. 1 of Miss Nora their shafts no cowboy, ked down upon pt. Helwas ned to a lack therefore been 1 “chore man.” ©¥kers that i r heels in love y and would sbon of ldered to deny or ught sight of d had then & new in some € Thinking, however. He pegan to ‘wonder if he was not in love with the gir], and within three or four days he had convinced himself that he was. He was unlettered, uncouth and without a dollar to his name, but it did not oc- cur to him that those things barred him’out of the race. He acknowledged his passion to the men about him, but had opportunity been offered him a hundred times over he would not have broached the matter to the girl by word or look. Some time in the future, he reasoned to himseif—some time after he had loved a long, long time and got to be a rich cattle owner, and the squint had been taken out of his eves and the crook out of his legs—he might declare his love, but not till then. The boys on the ranch had other things to think of besides guying Tom Bowens, but they let up on him for only a few days at a time, and there- fore there was little chance for his love to wane. It happencd, too, thai when Miss Nora went to ride by herself Tom was sent along to gallop about fifty feet in the rear and act as groom. She was somewhat haughty and she was some- thing of an aristocrat, but she was no snob. She spoke to her groom with a smile, and on many occasions drew him out regarding ranch life and it work and adventures. He was ajways respectful to a degree, and the thought never entered her head that he aspired. After her first three months at the ranch there came an Indian scare. A band had broken away from the reser- vation and taken to foothills and E @aily gallops were not interrupted, but shortened, and Tom Bowens, whp was & good shot. if no cowboy, buckled on e pair of revolvers every time he was sent to act as guard and groom. Sol- diérs were ordered out to drive the breakaways back, and after a few days the scare subsided. Some of the red- men surrendered and returned to ac- cept the beef and blankets of the Great Father, but half a dozen stood out for th: warpath and dodged the soldiers and remaired in the hills. They were cute enough to remain quiescent until forgotten, and then they one day emerged from their hiding place in search of scalps. It happened to be a day on which Miss Nora was taking a longer ride than usual, and it was fated that they should be brought to- gether, After ding a straieht twelve miles out from the ranch "e girl 1 her horse at the mouth of Wolf Pass. It was a ravine, or gulch, 200 feet long cutting through the hills. Tom Bowens was with her, as usual, and he h:ld her horse as she dismounted and v andered about among the boulders to cull a tlower here and there. As he watched her he fell to musing. His love was growing day by day, but he was suc- cessfully concealing i{t. When would the time come to reveal it? Wher re- vealcd would it b2 reciprocated? All of a sudden the thought came to him for the first time: “Can like me ever hope to win a girl e her?” Tom was scared at the thought, and he began to himself up. He had often been called “Bow Legs” and “Squint Eye.” He knew that he.was “off” in locks; he was uneducated; he was without means. “Te was only, a “choreman” at $20 a month on' a ranch, without the slightest pros- pect of rising higher. For the first tire he realized the gulf between. He had been. an idiot, he admitted to himself, but he would be an idiot no SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL away —fall in Jove with the cook as & counterbalance, He wag thinking harder than he had ever thought before when a slight noise in the pass startled him and ha thought he made out a human figure skulking about. If it was a humas figure it could only be that of one of the renegade Indians, and if he was skulking he meant murder. Tom Bowens had been charged ‘with a lack of nerve, and had always been ready to admit it. He had never been tried out, and therefore did not know him= self. Within a minute after catching sight of the skulking figure he had. turned the horses and was walking them slowly back toward the girl, whistling as he went. She looked up in surprise as he drew near, and h carelessly dismounted and calmly sai 5 “Miss Nora, don’t be startled at what I say. There are Indians in the pass. 1 have seen one of them, and there is probably half a dozen. I want you te get on your. horse and ride off slowly for a ways, and then ride like fire for the ranch.” “Do you miean it?” asked Nora in & puzzled way, 3 “But you—you—?" she asked as he lifted her into the saddle. “I'm gding to stay here a bit. The Indiaps must have their ponies in there with ’em, and they’d overhaul me before I got a mile. Dbn't stop now, but ride on. You'll get away all right, and you’ll tell 'em at the house.” She would have said more, but he gave her-horse a slap and the animal moved forward. His own would have followed, but he made it fast to a bush ard then went whistling back to the mouth of the pass ahd dropped behind a boulder and drew ‘onc of his revolvers. Five—seven—ten minutes passed. Then came a yell from the Indians, who had been tricked, and a band of six rushed out. Pop! pop! pop! went Tom’s revolver, and then they closed in on him and all was over. Two hours later, when a dozen cow- boys rode up, they found two dead In- dians and the trail of a waunded one, and Tom Bowens lay theré stiff and cold with a smile on his face. -He couldn’t win the The chaff set him killed stock and a man or two. The longer. He would cease to love —g@y had died for her. P FERE = . e e CUPID, TH R O 9 B - W AN | CORNVERSION i EATHERMAN \Y | 3 S By Leslie W. Quirk | J‘ By Espes W. Sargent P - X 1804, by Leslie W. Quirk.) It's simple, you understand. I am (Copyright, 1904, by E. W. Sargent.) bored her. No word came from Cal- the managing of the Clay- ews opened his breakfast and HEN editor vi paper at one morning looked for the weath- er report he found in st nmotice stating that , of the News was the paper in the city. Now esting to the man- was not what he He was looking for » Weather Burean, red each night from ng city T nanaging editor allowed his steak to grow cold while he searched er. But nowhere in it, from the top of the first column on the front page to the end of the last one on the final page, could he find any comments on the weather. He folded the paper deliberately, swearing softly to him- self, and fifteen minutes later he con- fronted Young Elton, the telegraph edi- tor. ““The weather report,” said the latter, the air of excusing the bureau, ot come last night.” said the managing editor, sir,” went on the telegraph “I held the paper till 3 o’clock for but for some reason it to come.” “ARh!” said the managing editor again. Then his anger burst forth, ed he raved as became a man who h reporters and editors under his thumb. “I suppose,” he concluded, sarcas- tically, “that it never occurred to you to ‘fake’ a report; to realize that any guess on the weather was better than none; to appreciate the comments the Times will make on the incident; to imagine the disappointment of every one of our readers. Why, you fool, do you suppose any one would have known that your guess was not a re- liable report, even if it differed from that of the Times? Do you——" He stopped sudder turned on his heels, and went out the door, with the re- mark n’t let it happen again!™ Young Eiton stared at the ceiling for good five minutes. Then he over to his desk with the mail went forgot all his troubles ¥, scented note. She nice things to him, he was faring in his sked hc ] w work. Tr- weather report failed to come that night. Young Elton * prepered some slips of paper with wvaricus Weather conditions written on them, and then diew one cautiously, It said: “Rain to-day: colder.” The ma morning ard g cditor read it the next wondered if it were re- lable. It not. All day a warm wind blew gently.from the south and & blue sky and a hot sun smiled ge- nially. Three nights later the message failed &gain, and young Elton guessed it would be fair. The next day the great- est rain of the season poured down from early morning till late at night. Young Elton's face was beginning to grow careworn. In desperation he went to the girl, and told her the whole story. we far my guesses have been all wrong,” he confided. “Now I have a plan that certainly deserves success. going to drop in and see you for a min- ute or two each evening about dinner time, if I may; and I shall gauge my guesses by your demeanor. If you are very cordial, I shall say the next day will be clear. If you are not so glad to see me, I shall prophesy cloydy weath- er. If I find you bored by my visits, the report will say rain. Do you m'.ler- stand?” The girl did. and. though she sug- gested the possibiiity of fair weather every day, young Eiton decided to try the plan. He grinned cheerfully, and went back to the office and wrute the report: “Falr to-day. with southerly winds.” And although the Times promised rain, the next day was cloud- less and warm. It was very clear for a week, during which time young Eiton was called upon to guess the weather conditions several times. The rival paper seemed to be steadily wrong, and the manag- ing editor of the News tock it upon himself to write a little editorial on the subject, reprinting the reporis of the two papers in paraliel columns. The reporters slapped young Elton on the back, and told him he should try the races. Then one night something went awry at the girl's house. It was only a trivial thing in jtself. but it lowered the spirits of both. The paper promised cloudy weather. and all the next day ugly, black clouds glowered. The little quarrel was over by the next night, but the conversation was strained. A few evenings later, the girl happened to mention another man, who was not young Elton's jdea of a fit com- panion for a woman. He said so very frankly, and the girl disappeared. The weather report read: “Rain to- day.” For twenty-four hours the water poured down unceasingly. Late the next afternoon young Elton sat at his desk thinking deeply. He had been 'out of sorts all day, and he knew very well where the trouble lay. He locked at the clock thoughtfully, and noted that it was nearly time for his call. He wondered whether it was worth while to go. % Suddenly he rose, slipped on rain- coat, and went out of the office. There was resolution in every movement. “I've been a fool,” he told himself; “a poor, blind fool. The nicest girl in the world almost mine—the nicest and pret- tiest—"" The girl met him at the door, and in- vited him into the house, a bit unstead- ily, as if she did not quite understand. Young Eiton slipped off his raincoat, noied the paper on the table, with the weather report wrinkled and a little tear stained, and began bravely. T've been a fool,” he repeated to the girl; “a poor, blind fool. If you will only forgive me, I'll—" AL She cried a little, very softly, on his shoulder, and then, with the prophesied rain pattering down outside, he slipped @ ring on her finger.” and they fell to talking of the something, when there should be a little cottage, with a bit of green and maybe a dog. When the managing editor took up his paper the next morning he neglected to scan the weather report until he had read some strong editorials. which struck him & very excellent. He smiled complacently at the forcible 'cr,t‘.l" and turned to the weather re- poi . His face gréw very white. “Southerly winlls,” he read, “and fair _weather forevermore” - THINK,” remarked Caivert very slowly, “that I should like to go to California.” Miriam agreed that California would be a pleasant place in 8 winter. She even de- clared that she would like to go there herself. With Calvert it was necessary to give more than was received. ‘He Now he pon-, was mno conversationist. dered over Miriam's admission, as though this openeé a mnew fleld for thought. “It would be pleasant,” he said pres- ently, “to go there on one's wedding trip.” “Yes," assented Miriam, a very pleasant trip. “Suppose, then,” he said, getting very red, “that we go there—together. You want to go. I want to go. We want to get married. Very simple, isn't it?” Miriam sprang to her feet. “Charlie Calvert,” she said excitedly. “T could just shake you.” He started back as though he feared she would carry her threat into execution. "Is that any way ‘to ask a girl to marry you? One would think you had been brought up in an atmosphere of personally con- ducted tours.” “Really,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean to offend you, don't you know? 1 really thought we were going to be married some day.” “We never will until you learn how to talk,” she snapped back. “No wo- man with any self-respect would ac- cept a proposal like that.” There was Infinite scorn in the voice. Calvert blined. He had known Miriam ever since they had played dolls together. Even then they had played at keeping house and had an- nounced to their parents that they were going to be married shortly. They had persisted long after the usual course of boy and girl love affairs. Miriam knew that he was not much of a talker. Why should she expect him to discover new ablility simply be- cauge he wanted to suggest that it was time they were married?’ He rose to his feet and regarded her uncertainly. “I think,” he drawled, “I had better be going. I don't seem to be any good here.” “Go,” she said evenly, “and don’t you come back until you learn to tell a2 woman that you love her as though you meant it.” She waited until she heard the door close and then burst into tears. She was used to Calvert and his ways, but all their lives he had accept- ed placidly and unemiotionally the faét of her love. Woman-like she hungered for the tender words that are as manna to the heart. Calvert apparently took her at her word. The next morning -there was a bunch of violets at her place at the breakfast table with his card marked P. P. C. in one corner. That was all. There was some comment that Calvert should leave town in the middle of the season, but no one supposed that there had been any trouble between Miriam and him, and she was at least spared the infliction of curious questions. For a few days she pretended tb her- self that she did not care. She flirted tely with Jack Holworth, who made love deliciously, but his tender speeches lacked the inflection of sin- cerity, and by the end of a week he t would be vert and soon she began to worry. To ask questions would be to admit that ghe did not know where he was, and this would subject her to comment. She could only wait and hope. Finally the family began to notice her appearance. a change of scene was what was need- ed. Then her mother decided that Californja was the place for her, not knowing what reflections that country would bring up. Out on the Arizona plains the train was drawn up on a siding to permit the eastbound overland to pass. The passengers on the westbound grum- bled at the delay, but Miriam slipped off the train to see it she could find any subjects for her camera. There was a large group of cacti beyond the switch and she trudged down to get a good viewpoint just as the belated train came speeding along. She thought it would be a good chdnce to try the speed of her camera by get- ting a snap shot of the moving train, and stepping to one side of the track held the little box in readiness. But the anticipated snap shot was never taken. There on the observation platform of the car was Calvert, as much surprised as she at the rencontre. With quicker thought than she had ever, given him credit for he slipped over the guard rail, and hanging to the rail for-a second dropped to the track. He fell sprawling, but was up in an in- stant, and was coming toward her with outstretched hands. “Mirfam!” he exclaimed joytully, t's awtully good to see you. You see I have learned my lesson, and was chafing at the three days it would take me to reach home, and here you are out in Arizona to meet me.” He folded her in his arms and kissed her. She made no resistance, “Well, you needn’t have risked your life just to say you're glad to see me,” she said saucily, as soon as speech was Ppossible. He laughed. The train wasn’t going fast enough to make it a dangerous accomplish- ment, and I didn’t want to have to fol- low you. Absence has made me more intelligent. It couldn’t make me more appreciative. I promise you that from now on you will have no causé for complaint.” There was & new tenderness in his eyes, a new deference in his attitude that proclaimed him the lover, not merely the old companion who took everything for granted. She. held out her hands with a happy smile. 1 believe you, dear,” she sald softly, “but Ishan’t put you to the test. I'll Taccept the old proposal and take a bridal trip to California.” He caught her in his arms again; and for a moment they were oblivious of everything around them. Theén he looked up whimsically. “I hope the walking's g00d,” he sald reflectively. She gave a cry. There in the distance the westbound train was fast receding. No one had noticed her leave, the train or had observed Calvert. They had simply gone on. “Well,” said Miriam, *let's walk,” and they started for the Golden Gate. ——— e “What reason have you for thinking the defendant was intoxicated?” ““Well, your Honor, when his wife called me over I found him in the cellar cutting kindling with the lawn mower.” —Clevelanq Plain Dealer, , . girl he loved, but he They declared that . 7 774 BY A TRICK OF FATE By Izola L. Forrester (Copyright, 1904, by T. C. McClure) INCE daybreak there had been no change in the ceaseléss lurching of the yacht, or the dull roar of the waves as they swept In long, heavy seas over its sides. Twice Katherine had tried to leave her statercom and reach the cab- in, and had been forced back. Once the white-faced stewardess had come to her door. Thers was no immediate dgnger, she assured her. They would be notified at once if there were. If she were nervous Mr. Heth- erington said he would come to her. And Katherine had sent back word that she was not at all nervous, and Mr. Hetherington need not trouble him. self at all about her. 5 When the girl had gone she had . thrown herself on the couch and given full vent to the terror that had haunted her all night long. She was afraid, afraid with her whole heart, of the great, lashing, hungry sea that tossed and played with the yacht like some huge monster with its helpless prey and threatened every moment to hurl it down to death. If Hetherington had been with her, if they two could haye faced eternity in each other's arms, With the old love strengthening them, she would have known no fear. But as it was, a wild, unreasoning, childish terror made her tremble at every crashing wave, and she longed for even a sight of his face before the end should have swept them irrevocably apart. The week at sea had passed like a. troubled dream. They,K were to have made harbor the previous morning and the storm had driven them off the course, down the southern French coast. By this time she had thought everything would have been over. The brief, tearless parting with Hethering- ton, the meeting with her mother in Paris and the trip to Berbec. Dear, lovely, lonely little Berbec up on the Normandy coast. The two summers she had spent there, in old Martigny’s classes, had been the hap-< plest of her life. She loved even the memory of the crescent shore line, with the old boats drawn up on the sand and the nets drying in the sun- light, and the brown-skinned fisher boys and girls ping over their baskets of -flvery?’-:kd fish. It had all been arranged and settled 80 decently, as Hetherington said. Theré had never been any open quar- rels between them for the servants and pubHc to gossip over, merely a quiet, courteous antagonism which required no explanation. The mar- riage had not been voluntary. ) “It was the blessed, stupid moth- ers, T, KatRffie siid, wilAgE®y cyni- cism, ‘at their last interview. “We're not the kind to settle down, Bruce, and be margied, and then do nothing but give house parties and-dinner par- ties &nd yachting parties and all the rest of it. ¥ou were rich and nobody in parucular, and | was poer and a Lorimer, and the wise little mothers simply saw a chance to found a dy- nasty of mutual benefit and we drift- ed until they landed us under the orange blossoms. It'is-a little tangle of fate's skeins. We can't go back and untangle it, but we can do the Alex- ander trick and cut it.” He had agreed to the separation too readily, she thought. Even acknowl- edging perfect indifference on both sides, a little" hesitancy would have been desirable. He had almost seemed cheerful when he had asked her what she intended doing at Berbec. ‘“You haven't the ghost of a right to ask me,” she had told him, “but there is nothing to conceal. Martigny keeps up his summer classes still. You know I studied under him there and in’ Paris, too, when we were poor, be- fore—"" she hesitated and went on with a light touch of bitterness, “be- fore I was the fortunate Mrs. Hether- ington. There is certain to be some of the old class left and I can rest and study.” “And be happy,” concluded Hether- ington. She did not answer. She felt that he could not under- stand how she longed for the old. quiet life away from the world. It was at Berbec he had first met her. Young and handsome, he had come to the little fishing hamlet on a yachting cruise. and. with all the confidence of new ricnes, had expected to enter the little exclusive art and social coterie that gathered there. It had been her favor, that had won him the entree, and before the ivy that clambered on old Martigny’s garden wall had turn- ed to crimson they were engaged. It was not until after the wedding in Paris at Eastertide that Katherine “had realized how the world, her world, was smiling at her in polite amuse- ment. It was so palpably a marriage de convenance. Not a breath of the sweetness of the wooing at quaint Ber- ‘bec ‘had reached it. It was merely that Kitty Lorimer had married Bruce Hetherington for his money, and all the host of nouveau riche Hethering- tons were to sweep into sotiety under the shadow of the Lorimer wings. And the knowledge of the world’'s judgment of them had bred a vague, mutual distrust, a fear born of love and pride that the other one might give credence to the world’s rumor. After that the drifting apart had been swift; and the end had come deliber- ately. She had wished to spend the WEET T SEY. ; mmzr TAXS 2 ZEE E/SeS. Hé haa re- summer at Berbec alone. fused positively to permit it. If she went against his wishes he woufd con- sider it final. Before she had fully realized what it meant she had tossed back her answer. It was final then. She would go to Berbec. The follow- ing week they had sailed for France. A sudden sharp rapping on her state. room door startled her. She caught her breath as she rose unsteadily, and clung for support to the side of the berth. The moment of danger had come, and they had sent for her. Not Hetherington, she knew. Until she called for him he would “meet even death without a word. But if she could call, if there was only yat time, only a moment of grace, to reach him and tell him it was all a miserable mistake of pride, that she loved him with all her heart and wanted his presence with her now at the supreme moment when all the world had fallen away into nothingness, and there was only the mystery of eternity before her, and his love to bear her on. The rapping sounded heavier and more imperative, “Kit! Let me in!" It was Hetherington's voice. turned the lock with steady fingers, & sudden "peace strengthening her. He paused in the doorway, tall and dark, and storm-beaten in his dripping ofl- skins, his face white and grim as he looked down at her. ‘‘Has it come, dear?” she asked, lift. ing her face to him. I'm not afraid— with you.”™ He caught her to him closely and Wpressea his lips to hers with hungry intensity. “Not afraid in death, Kit,” he said bitterly. “Then why in life?" . She closed her eyes and shrank closer to him. Death had become a friend to be met with smiling eyes and wel- coming happiness. As Hetherington ralsed his head she waited, expectant- ly. . The lurching and groaning had stopped. She wondered If they were sinking. and tightened the clasp of her arms about his neck as she smiled up at him. “How dear death is together,” she said softly. “I'm not one bit afraid.” His eyes lighted with sudden compre- hension and he stood back, loosening her arms. “The danger is past” he sald. *y came to tell you we had made the harbor at St. Hilaire. You can reach Paris by evening.” For an Instant she hesitated in the revulsion of thought, then held out her arms lovingly. “Not alone,” she said. “Not alone now, sweetheart. I am afrald In lite, too, alone.” —_——— Italy makes 35,000,000 a year out of foreign visitors. She