The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 28, 1904, Page 3

— THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ~*ak whining cry from the bundle t One arm still curved about. She wrsad .V;mm and drew back the cov- and Moreau saw a strange wiz- and a tiny, claw-like hand bly about He had never Young infant before and it 1 a weirdly hideous thing. he said, amazed. wered, “it was born in veck e ans 1 three nd she bent over med weakly e noises, with at changed man who into the sudden! perta of life or put it d—cr—some he d and had r ap- on had ey list d amus nt n, when his exhausted, he his mind n of mov- he =a I'd give you sk for two horses y shed I ain't a hing t —not a red ¥ your other wife,” said Moreau, ““doen’t seer ne fit to go on T rt St near the t erything’s He v her on the wondered? bin door, knocked come in upturned box which the baby t was off, and he bright hair, rip- f the same red- She had aces of her tears rdly sufficient cove: Y body, were dirty ar he had ever seer iistant New England town his boyhood had able appearanc at him and rose pushing it toward him. the baby on the bunk,” she s apologetically, “but I can hold her eyes disturb her,” he said place you could seeing her stand- It's the on said don’t you sit y and evidently ill at been eating out there,” he I thought you might like toc There's some stuff over there in the corner if you'll wait a moment He went to the corner where the sup- piies were stored and rified them for more ship's biscuit and a wedge of cheese delicacy which Fletcher had k ught fr Hangtown on his last visit, 2nd which he carefully refrained from o ng to the hungry emigrants. Coming back with these he drew out another box and spread them on it be- fore her. She looked on in heavy, si- se. When he had finished he fall t You want food as She ort to eat, and he Don’t you want it? t:n cup and the to step softly so as child, and there ng lu T in the sight of this mighty throat. much 1t expect of a bear. ss, with &s shaken violent emotion of a2n hour be- rerely an indication This was an ¢ and forth fierce paroxysm , gazed at her in ustion gcttinz no resvonse: »n the bunk? Jest she groaned. “I Oh, 1 can’t go on, p't. How can 1. Oh, it's too much! He vox silent before Usis ill for which . h edy, and sbe wailed wy of her spirit: If 1 could cnly die! the baby, and I can’t t up feeling sick at heart at What sight his hopeless despair. could he suggest to the unfortunate eature? He felt that anything he could say would be an insult in the face f such a position. “Oh, God, why can’t we die?"” groaned—"why can't we die?” As she said the words the sound of approaching voices came through the open @oor. Her husband’s struck through her agony and froze it. She stiffened and lifted her face full of an she animal look of listening. Moreau no- ticed her blunt and knotted hands, piti- ful in their record of toil, as she held them up in the transfixed attitude of strained attention. “What now?” she sald to herself. The pioneer, Fletcher and Bessie came slowly round the corner of the cabin. Bessie looked sleepily anxious, Fletcher lazily amused. As Moreau stepped out Jf the doorway toward them he realized that they had come to some decision. “Well,” said the man, got to travel.” “You're going on?" said Moreau. “How about the wagon goin’ to leave the wagon, and back for it from Hangtown. only thing to do.” And the hors He cal said Fletcher, “to mount h pecked one—on the horse and her along till one or « f ‘em Take your wife that horse?” ex- claimed 2 Why, it can't go two r We maybe it can't,” returned the an immovable Morecau was con- > was a pause. that =cious the w an was standing b in the doorway. He could hear her breathing Come on, Lucy,” said the husband. W t 10 move on some time.” Here the second wife spoke up: I don't see how the horse is goin’ to get Lucy twelve miles, and this man the first place we can stop is velve miles farther along.” Don’t you begin with your everlast- ing objections,” said the husband, furi- 3 t the horse.” The woman evidently knew the time i for tritling and turned away the brush shed. Fletcher fol- her with a grin. The situation appealed to his sense of humor, and he was curious as to the outcome. Moreau and the emigrant were left facing each other, with the first wife in the doorway. Your wife’s not_able to go on,” said the miner—his manner becoming sud- denly authoritative; “no more than the horse is.” Maybe not,” said the other, they're both goin’ to try.” “But can't you see the horse can't carry her? She certainly can't walk in- to #Hangtown, or even to Porter's ranch No, I can’t see. And how’s it come to be your busines: what they can do or what they can't?” “It's any one's business to prevent a woman from being half killed.” “Since m to think so much about b don’t you keep her here yourself you se why The man spcke with a savage sneer his eyes full of steely defiance. Before he had realized the full im- port of his words, burning with rage against the brutal tyrant to whom the wife was of no more moment than the horse, Moreau answered: I will—let her stay!” There was a moment’s pause. The emigrant’s face, dark with rage, was suddenly lighted by a curiously alert expression of intelligence. He looked at the weman in the background and then at' the miner “I'm not giving anything away just now,” he answered. “When she's well she’s of use. But I'll swap her for your two horses.” In the heat of his indignation and disgust Moreau turned and looked at the woman. She was leaning against the door frame, chalk white, and star- ing at him. She made no sound, but like eyes seemed to speak for more eloquently than her tongue ever could. “All right.”” he said quietly. bargain.” ‘Done, find her “It's a id the emigrant. *“You'H good worker when she pulls herseif together. You stay on here, Lucy. Bessie,” he sang out, “bring around them horses.” Under the phlegm of his manner there was a sudden expanding heat of shame that he strcve to hide. The wo- man neither stirred nor spoke, and Mo- reau stood with his back to her, strug- gling with his passion against the man who had been her owner. The impulse under which he had spoken had full possession of him, and his main feeling s desire to rid himself of the em- igrant and his other wife. “Here,” he said, “go on and tell them was that you'll take the hcrses. Hurry up!” The man needed no second hidding and m off rapidly round the corner of the cabin. Moreau and the swoman were silent. For the moment he had forgotten her presence, engrossed by the rage that filled his warmly generous nature. In- stinctively he followed the man to the angle of the cabin whence he could com nd the brush shed. The trio were anding there, Fletcher and the woman listening amazed to the emi- grant’s explanation. Moreau turned back to the cabin and his eye fell on the woman in the doorway. “Well,” he said—trying sily a while, do you? you ccmfor! She made me speak -“don’t mind staying on here for I guess we can make nswer, and after wait- said: no hy mo When u get stronger I'll be able to f d you something to do in Hang- wn. You know you couldn’t go on, ling so bad. And this air round "—with a wave of his hand to the “will brace you up surroundi finely.” She gave a murmured sound of as- sent, but more than this made no re- ply. Only her dog-like eyes again seemed to speak. Their miserable Jook gratitude made Moreau uncomforta- d he could think of nothing to pines: ble The scund of the trio advancing from the shed came as a welcome interrup- tion. They appeared round the corne of the cabin, leading the miner's two powerful and well-fed horses. Evi- dently the situation had been ex- plaincd. Fietcher's face was enigmati- cal. The ~umorousness of the novel exchange had come a little too close to his own comfort to be quite as full of zest as it had been earlier in the after- noon. He had insisted that the emi- grant leave his horse, which the man had no objection to doing. Bessie looked flushed and excited. Moreau thought he detected shame and disap- proval under her agitated demeanor. But to her work was a matter of sec- ond nature. She put the horses to the tongue of the wagon and buckled the rags of barness together before she turned for a last word to her compan- jon. This was characteristically brief: “So long, Lucy,” she sald, “let's see the baby again. It was shown her and she kissed it on the forehead with some tenderness. Then she climbed on the wheel of the wagon and took from the interior a bundle tied up in printed calico and laid it on the ground. It contained all the personal belongings and wardrobe of the first wife. There were a few murmured sentences between them and then she turned to ascend to her seat. But before she had fairly mounted a sudden impulse seized her and whirled her back to give Lucy a good-by kiss. There was more feeling in this action than in anything that had passed be- tween the trio during the afternoon. The two wives had been women who mutually suffered. There were s in Bessie's eyes as she climbed to place. The h and never turned head in the direction of his first wife. But as he took the reins and pre- pared to start the team, he called: Good-by, Lucy.” He clucked at the horses, and the vagon mcved forward amid a stir of red dust. The woman on the front seat drew her sunbonnet over her face. The man beside her looked neither to the right nor the left, but stared out over his newly acquired team <vith an im- passively set visage. F long whip curled out with a hiss, the spirited an- had he imals gave a forward bouna, and the wagon went clattering and jolting down the trail. Moreau stood watching its canvas arch go swinging downward under the dark boughs of the pines and the flick- ering foliage of the aspens. He watched until a bend in the road hid it. Then he turned toward the cabin. Fletcher was standing behind him, surveying him with a cold and sar- donic eye: “Well, you've done it!"” “I guess I have.” “What the devil are you going to do with her?” “Don’t know.” ¥And the horses gone; that busted cayuse left They stood looking at each other, Fletcher angrily incredulous, Moreau smilingly deprecating and apologetic. As they stood thus, neither knowing what to say, the emigrant's wife ap- peared at the doorway of the cabin. nothin’ but “I'll get your suppe; now if it's the right time,” she said timidly. CHAPTER IIL HE P.H_)E AWAY. Alas, my Lord, my life is not a thing Worthy vour noble thoughts! *Tis not a lite, *Tis but a plece of childhood thrown away.” BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. That night the two miners rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down on the expanse of slippery grass under the pine. Moreau did net sloep soon. The day's incidents were the first interruption to the monotony of their uneventful summer. Now, the strong man, lying on his back, looking at the large® white stars between the pine boughs, thought of what he had done with perplexity, but without regret. In the still peaceful- ness of the night he turned over in his mind what he should do when the. wo- man grew stronger. Women were rare in the mining districts, and he knew that the emigrant wife could earn high wages as a servant either in Hang- town or the growing metropolis of Sac- ramento. The child might hamper her, ¥ < QAN but he could help her to take care of the child until she got fairly on her feet. He had nothing much to do with his “dust.” Strong and young and in California, that always meant money enough. So be thought, pushing uneasiness from his mind. Turning on his hard bed he could see the dark bulk of the cabin with a glint of starlight on its window. Above, the black boughs of the pine made a network against the sky sown with stars of an extraordi- nary size and luster. He could hear the river sleepily murmuring to itself. Once, far off, in the higher mountains, the shrill, weird cry of a California lion tore the silence. He rose on his elbow, looking toward the cabin. The sound was a terrifying cne, and he was prepared to see the woman come out, frightened, and had the words of reas- surance ready to call to her. But there was no movenent from the little hut She was evidently wrapped in the sleep of utter fatigue. In the morning he was down at a basin sccoped in the stream bed mak- ing a hasty toilet, when Fletcher, sleepy-eyed and yawning. came slip- ping over the ban “What are we goin’ to do for break- fast?” he said. = “Is that purchase o’ yourn goin’ to git it? She'd oughter do something to show she’s worth the two best horses this side er Hangtown. Moreau, with his hair and beard be- dewed with his ducking, was about to answer when a sound from above at- tracted them. Lucy ‘was standing on the bank. In the clear morning light she looked white and pinched. Her wretched elothes of yesterday, a calico sack and skirt, were auz.nented by a clean apron of blue check. Her skirt was short and showed her feet in a pair of rusty shoes that were they might have been her hus “Are wou comin’ to breakfast?” she said; “it's read) Then she disap- peared. The men looked at each other and Moreau shook the drops from his beard and began to try to pat his hair into order. The civilizing influence of woman—even such an unlovély wgman as the emigrant's wife—was beginning its work. Lucy had evidently been busy. The litter that had disfigured the ground in front cf the cabin was cleared away Through the open door and window a CIINGE . DOWHY, THE THEY SAdW. %M[gfi o I CHOONER \ 7 1 // ] 4 / 4 > Y/ ot > /!y . i’ current of resinqus mountain air passed which counteracted the effect of the fire. Nevertheless she had evi: ly feared its heat would be oppressive, and had brought two of the boxes to the rude bench outside the doorway, and on these the breakfast was lald. It was of the simplest—fried bacon, coffee and hot biscuits—but the scent hot and appetizing, was sweet rils of the hungry men. Sitting on the bench, the: to nnd were not disappointed. The emigrant’s wife had evidently great skill in the preparation of the simple food of the picneer. With the scanty mean: her hand she had concocted a meal to the men. used to their own primitive cooking, seemed the most foothsome they had eaten since they left San Francisco As she retired into the cabin, Fletch- tull of biscuit—sald ok anyway. I won- der how uits so all- fired light They saleratus, neither.” Here she re carrying the coffee-pot, a shoulder, r Fletcher's his t He ca reau a1 >wn on the tab! commanded M mpared to t down instantly, with her htened obedience We're not use he ontinued here,"—he r bench and po 18 we want I'll had your breal No—I ain’t had m swered 3 “Well, “wh shout w us ours first? She locked little on the ben dreadful ide that was afraid of belx ‘Here, take this € her his and »m the pan, which stood dle of the table, a biscuit. “The She tried to eat, f difficult. ¥ler han ured with work, she cast a furtive, ng look at him where he sat on an overturned box, eying her with good-humored i rest. As he met the frightened dog-eyes he led encouraging but she was grave and returned to her breakfast with nervous haste. As the me scended the bank to the stream bed, »tcher said Well, she's some use B world. That's the first decent meal we've had since we left Sacramentc “She didn’t eat much of it herself,” returned his pard as he began the morning’s work She is th rnedest lookin' wo- man I ever seen. Looks 1 been fed on shavings. I'll lay ne that emigrant c she b'longs to has "'most beat the life out er her.” g to the cabin an hour later, e woman, wash- \ appr ' that she wa sun spat- ine boughs on her thick r, and on the nape where the skin was tanned to a coarse, russet brown What are you doing that for?' he said, coming to a standstill In front of “You needn’t bother about the oughter be cleaned,” she swered. “You “that you've got to work all the time. don’t want to feel”” he sald, bit. It's a I wanted you to r good place to rest h She made no an T, caps on a piec f flour sack I ain't awful tired pregently in a low voice, “Well, don’t you we everything so clean up a ng the tin she sald about Waving ‘Il do anyway. And the cabin's pretty clean—isn't it?" he asked, somewhat anxiously “Yes—awful clean,” she said. Then, ‘after a moment, she continued: “T hadn’t oughter have stayed in the cab- in. It's your'n. Me and the baby'll be all right in the brush shed with Spe ty. ‘What nonsense!” retorted Moreau. “Do you suppose I'd let you and that baby stay in the brush shed, the place where the horses have been kept all summer? You're to keep the cab- in, and If ther g you want— might need for Fletch- er'll go to H n t. Just say what’ yo vo- men arcund, ¢ all sorts of littl “I don’t want nc * she said with her head down— n so comfortable “Have yo he asked, less from the desire to make “Four yea 5 I was in 8 s, just before dad and I was startin’ to » plains. Dad was taken sick. as com- sumpted, and some one im to go to California, so we was g¢ to start along with a heap of ¢ ks. We was all waitin® 'round § for the ather to settle and tha v 1 met “Jake?" said Moreau, interrogatively; who was J s “My husbard—, Shackleton. He ome o' the drivers of the train. He He was there in camp with us, and up and asked me, and dad wa ad to got an 4 take care of me, bein’ as he v sumpted. We was afore the train s it much, but dad thought it v thing. My father was fethodis preacher, and knowin’ as how h couldn’t last long, he was powerful glad to get some one to look after me I was pretty young to b t—just 15.” “Fifteen!” echoed Moreau—then piec ing together her scant bits of biogra- phy—“Then you're enly 19 now?" ‘That’s my age,” she said with her laconic dryness. He looked at her in incredulous amaze. Nineteen! A girl, almest a child! A gush of pity and horror welled up in him, and for the moment he could find no words. She went on, evi- dently desirous of telling him of her- self as in duty bound to her new master. “Dad died before we got to Salt Lake. Then Jake and I settled there and Willie was born, and for two years it wern't so bad. Jak: liked me and was good to me. But he got to know the Mormons and kep’ all the time it weren't no good dein’ anything not bein’ a Mormon. He said they had no use for him, bein’ a Gentile. And then he seen Dessie—she was a waitress in the Sunset Hotel—and go§ powerful set on her. She was a big, strong woman, and could work. Not like me. I couldn't never work except in the house. ‘I was ne good for outdoor work. I was always a sort er drag, he said. So he turned Mormon and mar- ried Bessie, and she came to live with