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| THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL WIS is the first in- | stallment of Gerald- ine DBonner's latest | best novel, “To-mor- I'angle,” a book that d a remarkable East and | to be the led of story that been written about California and the 'd women—rugged s — who afterward beeame the Bonanza Kings | of the Golden West. You the characters | the wherein move: the rehearsal at the Grand Opera-house: | the strange discovery of photographs in the zallery on Post street, the tragedy on Russian Hill all me to you | with a vividness that | the unfolding of | the thrilling narrative one | of vital, personal interest. It is absolutely one of | the books on the | market. The Sunday Call | has the exclusive rights for its publication in this ‘ form. You cannot get it | clsewhere for five times [ what it will cost you in | these pages. the sure men recognize and scenes they the comes | makes newest - — —_— the Bobbs-Merrill by Judges. the desert the at n road passed s a t rd face. i i h of the sky heat a was thrown back rched surf ce of the land. Utah Desert in as August in Aness of the lite. The agon made ne of gray. been but one shad- rt and this was that be- n, which was stationary declining dow was then a silence t nature. The , were like in their mute im- child dared the dying 2 prett v of he sligk and had pow- mother sat beside 19 years rried four tanned 3 Dazed by t had just of the pioneer. wife of the man who He was of the Mor- joined a year & course s of the of heat waves creeping up ted itself on the the wag- Suddenly the J a fluttering breath two, and died. The two womcn d 1 rd, the mother helplessly; ther, with a certain prompt deci- hat marked all her movements, the puise and heart, all Lucy,” 1squely, but not unkindly you'd better get into the wago and I'll do everything.” The g slowly like a person ac- ¥. moved to the back of nbed in. i n this sudden ed back his hat wives, but did not me or speak. The second wife cov- ered the dead child with her apron, and approached him. “He's dead,” she said. “Ob,” he answered. “We must bury him,” was her mext remark. moved, drew over she said ‘I guess ; Jake at his “Well, all right,” he assented. He went to the wagon and detached from beneath it a spade. Then he walked & few rods away and, clearing a space in the sage, began to dig. The woman prepared the child for burial. The silence that had been disturbed re- settled. broken at intervals by the thud of the spade. The heat began to lessen and a still serenity to possess the bar- ren landscape. The desert had re- ceived its tribute and was appeased. The rites of the burial were. nearly complete when a sound from the wagon atiracted the attention of the man and the woman. They stopped, listened and exchanged 3 glance of alarmed = intelligence. The woman walked to the wagon rapidly, and ex- changed a few remarks with the other wife. Her voice came to the man low and broken. He did not hear what she said, but he thought he knew the pur- port of her words. As he shoveled the carth into the grave his brow was con- tracted. He looked angrily harassed. The second wife came toward him, her sunburnt face set in an expression of § anxiety ,” she said, in answer to his ‘she feels very bad. We got to stop here. We can’t go on now.” Iie made no answer, but went on building up the mound over the grave. He was younger by a year or two than the woman with whem he spoke, but it was easy. to-be seen that of her, as of all pertaining to him, he was absolute master. She watched him for a mo- ment as if waiting for an order, then, receiving none, said: “I'd better go back to her. train’'d come by with a doctor. ain’t got much strengt He vouchsafed no a turned to the climbed in. He continued to build up and shape the mound with sedulous and evidently absent-minded care. The sweat poured off his forehead and his bare, brown throat and breast. He was a lean but powerful man, worn away by the jour- ney to bone and muscle, but of an iron fiber. He had no patience with those who hampered his forward march by sickness or feebleness. When he had finished the mound the sun was declining toward the tops of the distant mountains. The first colér of its setting was inflaming the sky and of strange, The vast, grim expanse k on a tropical aspect. Against the background the chdin of hills turned a transparent amethyst, and the livid earth, with its Jeprous eruption, was transformed into a pale lilac blue. Presently the thin, clear red of the sun- set was pricked by a white star point. And in the midst of this vivid blending look, I wish a She wer, and she re- and this time wagon, of limpid primary colo: the fire the man had kindled sent a fine line of straight up into the air. second wife came out of the wagon to help him get the cupper and to eat hers. They talked a little in low voices as they ate, drawn away from the heat of the fire. The man showed symptoms of fatigue; but the power- erful woman was unconquered in her stubborn, splendid vigor. When she left him, he lay down on the sand with his face on his arm and was soon asleep. The sounds of dole that came from the wagon did not wake him, disturb the deep dreamlessness of his exhausted rest. The night was half spent, when he was wakened by the woman shaking his shoulder. He looked up at her stupidly for a minute, seeing her head against the decp blue eky with its large white stars. “It's over. It's a little girl. Lucy’s pretty bad.” He sat up, fully awake now, and in the stillnesg of the night heard the ¢ like mew of the new-born. The can- arch of the wagon giowed with a fiery effect from the lighted ianterns within. the dying?"” But he said hurriedly. No—not's bad as that. But she's terribly low. We'll have to stay here with her till she pulls up some. We can’t move on with her in this way.” He rose and, going to the wagon, looked in through the opened flap. His wife was lying with her eyes closed, waxen pale in the smoky lantern light. The sight of her shocked him into a sudden spasm of feeling. She had been h and pretty girl of 15 when he ha ried her, four years before at St. Lov He wondered if her father, who had given her to him then, would have known her now. In an excess of care- less pity he laid his hand on her and said: “Well, She sh Lucy, how d'ye feel?” ank from his touch and tried w a corner of the blanket, on which her head rested, over her face. He turned away and walked back to the fire, ving to the second wife: “I guess she’ll be able to 5o on to- morrow. She can stay in the wagon ali the time. I don’t want to run no risks ‘er gittin’ caught in the snows on the Sierra. 1 guess she’ll pull herself to- gether all right in a few days. I've seen her worse 'n that.” CHAPTER 1L STRIKING A BARGAIN. How the world is made for each of ys! How glf we perceive and know in it Tends to some moments' product thus, When a soul declares itselt—to wit: By its fruit, the thing it does! —BROWNING. Where the foothills fold back. upon one another in cool, blue shadows, and the tops of the Sierra, brushed with snow, look down on a rugged rampart of mountains falling away to a smiling plain, Dan Moreau and his partner had been working a stream-bed since June. Placerville—still Hangtown—though al- ready past the feverish days of its first youth, was some twenty-five miles to the southwest. A few miles to the south the emigrant trail from Carson crawled over the shqulder of the Sierra. Small trails broke from the parent one and trickled down from the summit, by “the line of least resistance,” to the outposts of civilization that were planted here and there on the foothill and valley. The canyon where Moreau and his “pard” were at work was California, virgin and unconquered. The forty- niners had passed it by in their eager rush for fortune. Yet the narrow gulch, that steamed at midday with heated airs and was steeped in the pun- gent fragrance which California ex- hales beneath the arbors of the sun, was ylelding the two miners a good supply of gold. Their pits had honey- combed the stream’s banks far up and down. Now, in September, the water had dwindled to a silver thread, and they had dammed it near the rocker in- to a miniature lake, into which Fletch- er—Moreau's partner—plunged his dip- per with untiring regularity, -at’ the same time moving the rocker which filled the hot silence of the canyon with its lazy monotonous rattle. They had been working with little cessation since early June. The rich- ness of their claim and the prospect that the first snows would put an end to labors and profits had spurred them to unremitting exertion. In a box under Moreau's bunk there were six small buckskin s®cks of dust, joint profits of the summer’s toil. Moreau, a muscular, fair-haired giant of & man, was that familar figure of the early days—the gentleman miner. He was a New Englander of birth and education, who had come to California in the first rukh, with a little fortune wherewith to make a great one. Luck had not been with him. This was his first taste of success. Flve months be- fore he had picked up a “pard” in Sac- ramento, and after the careless fashion of the time, when no one sought to in- quire too closely ‘into anether’'s ante- cedents, Jjoined forces with him and sp wandering spring, prospecting from bar to bar and camp to camp. The casual words of an Indian had di- rected them to the canyon where now the creak of their rocker filled the hot, drowsy days. Of Harney Fletcher, Morean knew nothing. He had met him in a lodging- housge in Sacramento; and the partner- ship proved to be a \successful one. ‘What the New Englander furnished in money, the other made up in practical experience and general handiness. It was Fletchér who had constructed the rocker on an improved model of his own, His had been the directing brain as well as the assisting hand which had built the cabin of logs that surveyed the stream-bed from a knoll above. The last remnants of Mareau's fortune had stocked it well, and there were two good horses in the brush shed behind it. It was now September, and the leaves of the aspens that grew along the stream bed were yellowing. But the air was warm and golden with sunshine. Above, in the high places of the Sierra, where the emigrant trail crept along the edges of ravines and crawled up the mighty flank of the wall that shuts the garden of California from the desert beyond, the snow was already deep. Fletcher] whb had gone into Hangtown the week before for provisions, had come back fuil of stories of the swarms of emigrants: pouring down the main road and its branching trails, higgledy- piggledy, pejl-mell, hungry, gaunt, half nt a clad, in their wild rush to enter thedand e. of prom - s ne suggestion of wintef he hot air was steeped in the scents that the sun draws from the mighty pines which clothe the foethills. At midday the little gulley where the men worked was heavy with tic them. All about them was strangely silent. The pines rising rank on rank stirred to no passing breezes. There was no bird note, and the stream had shrunk so that its spring-time song had become a whisper.- Heat and si- lence held the long days, when the red dust lay motionless on the trail above, and the noise made by the rocker sounded strangely intrusive and loud in the enchiznted stiliness that held the landscape. On an afternoon like this the men were working in the stream bed—Mo- reau in pit, Fletcher at his place by the rock There was 10 conversation between them. The picture-like dumb- ness of their surroundings seemed to have commuificated itself to them. Far above, glittering against the bule, the white peaks of the Sierra looked down rom remote, aerial heights. 7 thread of water gleamed in its unoecupied bed. Save the men, only moving thing in sight was a in the sky ove, its winged shadow floating for- ward and pausing on the slopes of the gulch. Into this spellbound silence a sound suddenly broke—a sound unexpected and unwished for—that of a human It was a man’s, harsh and loud, evidently addressing cattle. With it came the creak of wheels. The two partners listened, amazed and irreso- lute. The trail that passed their cabin was an almost unknown offshoot from the main highway. Then, the sounds growing clearer, they-scrambled up the bank. Coming down the road they saw the curved top of a prairie shcooner that formed a background for, the forms of two skeleton horses, beside which walked a man who urged them on with shouts and blows. Wagon and horses were enveloped in a cloud of red dust. _ At the moment that the miners saw this unwelcome * sight, one of the wretched beasts stumbled. and pitching forward, fell with what sounded like a human groan. The man, with an oath, went to it and gave it a kick. But it JSvas too far spent to rally, and settling on its side, lay gasping. A woman, stout and sunburned, ran round from the back of the cart, with a face of an- gry consternation. As Moreau ap- proached, he heard her say to the man who, with oaths and blows, was at- tempting to drag the horse to its feet: “Oh, it ain’t no use doing that. Don’t you gee it's dying?” Moreau saw that she was right. The animal was in its death throes. As he came up he said, without preliminaries: “Take off its harness, the poor brute's done for,” and began to unbuckle the rags of harness which held it to the wagon. 2 The man and woman turned, startled, and saw him. Looking back they saw Fletcher, who was coming slowly, and evidently not very willingly, forward. The sight of the exhausted pioneers was a too familiar one to interest him. The dying horse claimed a lazy cast of wide, the hawk that hung polsed ook Moreau and the his indifferent eye. man loosed the harness, lifted the pole, and let the creature lie free from in- cumbrance. The other horse, freed, too, stood drooping, too spent to move from where it had stopped. If other testi- mony were needed of the terrible jour- ney they were ending, one saw it in the gaunt face of the man, scorched by the sun, seamed with lines, with a fringe of ragged beard, and long locks of un- kempt hair hanging from beneath his miserable hat. This stoppage of his jourgey with the promised land in sight seemed to ex- asperate him to a point where he evi- dently feared to speak. With eyes full of savage despair he stood looking at the horse. Both he and the woman seemed so overpowered by the calamity that they had no attention to give to the two strangers, but stood side by side, staring moro v at the animal. “What'll we do?” she said hopeless- ly. “Spotty,” indicating the other horse, “ain’t no use alone,” Moreau spoke up encouragingly. “Why don't'you leave the wagon and the other horse here? You can walk into Hangtown by easy stages. The Porter ranch is only twelve milés from here and ycu can stay there all night. The poor beast can't do much more, and we'll feed it and take care of your other things while you're gone.” “Oh; damn-it, we can’t!”” said the man furiously. As'if in explanation of this remark, a woman .suddenly appeared at the open front of the wagon. She had evi- d ‘been lying within it, and had not risen until now. When Moreau looked at her he ex- perienced a violent thrill of pity, that the evident sufferings of the others had not evoked. He was a man of a deeply tender and sympathetic nature toward all that was helpless and weak. As. his glance met the face of this woman, he thought she was the most piteous ob- ject he had ever seen. 4 “You'd better come into the cabin,” he said, “and see what you ean do. You can't go on mow, and you look pretty well used up.” N The man gave a grunt of assent, and taking the other horse by the head be- gan to lead it toward the cabin, being noticeably careful to steer it out of the way of gll stumbling blocks. The wo- mad in the sunbonnet called to her companion in the wagon: “Come, Lucy, get a move on! We're going to stop and rest.” Thus addressed, the woman moved to the back of the cart, drew the flap aside and slipped out. She came behind the others, and.Moreau, looking back, saw that she walked slowly, as if feeble, or in pain. . Advancing to the supbonneted figure in frent of him he said. with a back- ward jerk of his head: “What's the matter with hef? Is she sick?” The woman gave an indifferent glance bAckward. the man, she secmed completely preoccupied by their disaste “Not now,” she answered, has been. But good Lord! a sudden burst of angry bitterness—"wo- men like her ain’t meant to take them sort of journeys. If it weren't for her, Jake and I could go cn all right.” She relapsed into slience as the cabin revealed itself through the trees. It appeared to interest her, and she went to the door and looked in. It was the typical miner’s cdbin of L the period, consisting of a single room pine, ‘with two bunks. Opposite the doorway wag the wide-mouthed chimney, a slab of rock before it doing duty as hearth- stone. Theré was amn armchair formed of a barrel, cushioned with red flannel and mounted on rockers. Moreau's bunk was covered with g miner’s blan- ket, and the ineradicable habits of the gentleman spoke In the very siniple but sufficlent tcilet accessories that stood on a shelf under a tiny square of look- ing-glass. Over the robf a gréat pine spread its boughs, and in passing through these the slightest bregth of air made soft eolian murmurings. To the pioneers, the wild, rough placesiooked the ideal of comfort and luxury. A small spring bubbled up near the roots of the pine and triekled across the space in front of the cabin. To this, by common consent, the party made its way. The exhausted horse plunged its nose in the cool current and drank and snorted and drank again. The elder woman kneélt down and laved her face and neck and even the tep of her head in the water. The man stood looking with & meody eye at his broken animal, and joined by Fletcher, they talked over fts condition. The miner, versed in this as in all practical matters, deemed the beas: incapacitated for fourneys of any leagth for some time to come. Both animals had been driv- en to the Hmit of their strength. The pignéer assented: “1 had to get acrost before the snows blcked us, @nd they're heavy up there now,” with a nod of his head toward the mountzins above: “then I wanted to get down into the settlements as soon’s I could. 1 knew there weren't two more days work in ‘em, but T cal- K’lated they'd get m r that it didn’t matter.” “The only thing for you to de is to walk into Hangtown, buy a mule there. and come back.” The man made a despairing gesture. “How the hell can I, with her?" he said, indicating the younger woman. Fletcher turned round and surveyed her with a cold, exploring eye where she had sunk down on the roots of the in. with her back against its trunk. looks pretty well tuckered out, “Your wife?” “She he said. “Yes." e “And the other one's your sister " he continued with glib euriesity. “She's my wife, too.” The inquirer, who was used to such plurality on the part of the Utah emi- grants, gave a whistle and said “Mormons, eh?" The man nodded Meantime Moreau had entered the cabin to get some food and drink to offer the sick w Ip a few mo- ments he reappaared carrying a tin cup diluted with water the containing whisky e approached wom tree trunk. Her eyes were ¢ deathiike had worn r¢ en back a that she held The man were disp Coming to said “I've brought you brace you Would » it She raised her lids and ‘m‘bk»! at him, and then the eup. As he met glance he noticed that her eyes were a THOTSANL vn like * he rea a dog's, ar zed that she might be hed out her ha ing de , let the tears verything but I w r sense ing!” he ex- sympath poor thing! claimed In a “You're half more of this.™ poor t urst 4 nto her Nand, to @o for her. She took it. and then, through th» ars, he sa r cast a look of furti alarm tow within his shift her With a se husband. She was kempt and haggard creature to who she belonged. He moved so that h sheltered her anda watched her fry drink again. But her tears blinded h ard she handed the cup back with haking hand. “It's been too much,” she gasped. “1 I could only have died! My boy di Out there on them awful plains where n't a tree and it's hot like a And the d him there and he.” fe and he?" he repeated vagu his pity upying his nd for the “Yes, B the first. “Oh,” he said, comprehending, “you're from Utah?” “Not me,” she answered quickly, “I'm from Indiana. I'm no Mormon. He wasn't neither till he married Bessie. He wanted her and he did it." Here she was suddenly interrupted by second wife. I'm