The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 9, 1905, Page 8

™ ow band the trail red, the Houghton oo well. He a swiftly left the the trail furious B d eceded him by Houghton time, after ad; wo k where the met; that was the which Houghton It was only a owledge er hundred 1 A and he could laugh at aboard to find him had with his 108, the Ming of feet tuneless over him Z t n he hopeless gray of o the sur togethe: agtes depressing signify? He to begin again; em writer. cent. With he is paid, two cents a word, more often cepted, is compelled to wait nine months to a year. trample down e lie of life and rise up from it > things. thout profit his ight ca 1se was spent. straggl hed heasy shadows. One bul- m shambled t ahead as Hough- uck out for Iroad dor you , this e way home was a wom- an's voice, and Houghton started sounded so e words came t man Hough- ove ng with wift rides, could see a woman o the lurch- L a little whose plaintive oS suggested kness and ex- me fatigue. “Davie, dea came the woman's voice again, “t be dis- ye if ye'r work on . T've walked the night te e to come home; and I had to 1e all alone because Jem wasn't in e when I went—Oh, Davie!” hey’1l chargin’ at goin' home; ‘course I'm goin’ e with ¥, Ann drunken voice held a maydlin and the drunken steps ng to him with the last rem- f her feeble strength. “Davie, Her voice broke in a desperate This is the way to the railroad, and we've got to get back by to the Deer Creek shaft. No— way!” With a final tug she succeeded in turning him about, but her strength vanished with the effort and she fell, a little tumbled heap, at his feet. In- stantly the man bent over her, all ten- derness and concern. “Why, Annie, Annie,” he murmured foolishly, and picked he. up in his pow- erful azrms. “Ye wor roight, of course, and I'll be— There, there, Annie—" Her little head hung limp against his shoul- der as he hell her, looking down into her face. “Yes, we'll be goin’ home, Annie. Houghton watched him start down the road, pouring out his drunken endear- over the frail little creature un- cious in his arms. Deer Creek , the man would have a ty rough four miles; he would be at least half- y sober by the time that he had tramped over that rough trail in the early morning. And the woman? Houghton t an apprehensive glance backward, just In time to see the lumbering figure lurch forward and fall “The fool!” he muttered furiously. “The drunken fool!” He ran back and dragged the heavy sprawling figure aside. The woman was still unconscious and gave no indi- cation of further injury, if there had been any. Houghton lifted her. Davie had dissolved into drunken tears. “She’s too good for me; she's too gcod!” he repeated, as one who has said the words many times before. “In here through all the dark after me, and her afraid 9’ the dark, an’ weak—" Houghton cut him short in disgust and anger. “Well, what are you going to do about it now?” he demanded. “I'll go hom I've got to be at the shaf{t by seven. Yes—I'll go home—an’ I'll carry her, an" carry her?” The brawny ANNOUNCEMENT. For the purpose of encouraging California and Western writers, by uficrmg_l consideration for short stories equal to that paid by the best magazines, and for the purpose of bringing young and unknown writers to the front. the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- test in which a cash prize of $50 will be paid each weck for the best story submitted. There is no section of America more fertile in ma- terial for fiction or more prolific in pens gifted to give spirit to the material at hand than is California and the West. Therefore the Sun- day Call offers $50 for the best story submitted each week by a West- . Stories of Western life and Western characters will, as a rule, be given the preference, but all strong stories, and especially strong stories by new writers, will receive careful consideration. , Each story will be judged strictly upon its literary merit. Type- written copy is the casiest to read and will receive the first consider- - etion from the editor. but do not he writing if you cannot Fifty dollars in c: the majority of sitate to send a story in hand. afford to have it typewritten. ash for a story of not less than asoo words and thx more t:lm:x 3soodwo_;:: gu approximately $17 per thousand r 1.7 cents per word. e highest price paid i i for the work of any but the very p;s: p:riteb;‘%‘: ::‘r?l:‘;?r?m flun“ one cent and a half, and generally one magazines the writer, after his story is ac. 1 until the publication of his story before a period of seldom less than six months. and usually from n t 4 The stories accepted in this contest will bs paid for immediately upon publication, cad will be’ published on t:a frst Sunday following the judeing of the manuscripts. THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. ¢ arms reached out for the little figuré, but Houghton was the quicker of the twe, and he gently raised the woman, The man watched him in owlish sur- prise.; “Looks like it, though,” mut- tered Houghton. “She certainly can’t walk that trail again.” “No, she can’t walk.” The drunken man had caught the words. “I'll carry ‘er.” Again the unsteady arms were stretched forth for Houghton’s burden. “3'1l carry 'er,” he repeated. Hough- ton frowned him aside, his eyes cloud- ing with the trouble of the situation. “I'll_give you a lift with her—part way, at least,” he said, with a despair- ing thought for the train that would pass—he did not know how soon. He walked down the single street of the hilly little town, past the saloons, hideous in this revealing hour, out across the little hamlet to the head of the trai] which he had covered a few hours before. The man followed un- steadily, tearfully reciting a long mon- ologue of self-reproach. Houghton turned to him. “Couldn’t you get a horse and wagon of some sort and take the road?”’ he demanded. “Road don't g0 out our way,” the man replied. “Deer Creek’s the hard knot in the mountains, and we mostly walks. I'll carry her. Let me take her, my 1i'l Annie!” “Now listen,” he said. “I've got to go back to—well, anyway, I— Can't you wait here with her beside the road until she’s herself again?”’ “Wait here? What for?” Hough- ton’s spirits sank before the hopeless stupidity of the query. “I've got to get to work, but I can carry her. Let me.” Houghton shook his head. “You'd kill her if you were to fall with her again. Walit untll she’s over this — or couldn’t you leave her here somewhere ?”” “Leave her here? here?” The gray light was growing brighter over the cluster of wretched shacks that formed the town, and Houghton needed to glance over them but once to realize that here there was no place for Annie. He looked again at her wan, sweet face. “Does she—has she fajnted often?” he asked. “Pretty often,” was the reply. “The life here’s hard on her but she would come because I— “Jem tried to tell her not to come, but she did. An’ she's le, an’ weak-like in the back—". oughton felt a tug at his heart. He Leave Annie— 2008600€000000000000000000000000¥080300080000 0000000000000000000000 Each Week fcr the Best———— SHORT- STORY was thinking of some one else who had been “little, an’ weak-like in the back,” from the time that his baby eyes had first learned to know her, in her big in- valid’s chair, until the coffin lid had shut away her patient smile forever. All through the year of his prison life that smile had been with him, its light making clear the dark places over which his feet had stumbled, brighten- ing the future when his despairing eyes looked into it, and at the last il- luminating the shadowy chance of his escape. And now by the same light he saw that come what might he could not abandon this weak little woman in her helplessness. But to go back over the trail that he had covered in hot haste in the night— to Deer Creek Valley, of all places— 2nd with the stolen clothing upon him! If she would only come to! There was no sign of change in the blue-white, delicate face, no life in the wasted, small figure. How could any one leave her to the mercy of this blundering, irresponsible wretch? Houghton set his lips hard, and rising, trudged mis- erably on. Davie staggered along in the rear, his head stupidly nodding at each unsteady step. Slowly the daylight grew, widening the cheerless prospect about them; the stunted brush, the rocky trail, the murky river, winding its sullen way among tle boulders. The cleansing snows of winter had not.yet come, and the water: moved sluggishly, heavy with refuse. Houghton strode along, the little woman in his arms. Her weight was as nothing, but at every seep he felt the crushing pressure of impending ruin. Again he reviewed the events of five days ago; ‘his sudden discovery of the plan to escape that had been perfected by the others; his horrified recoil from the method that they had adopted; and then his detegmined opposition to the violent means that they had proposed, and his triumph over the baser spirits among them; even now he shuddered at the thought of the horror that his firmness had averted. Captured or free, there would be no bloodshed to answer for; nothing but the severing of shackles, the breaking down of pris- cn bolts. He thought again of the desperate chance that had opened his prison duors; the marvel of finding himself again at Ml the greater marvel of KeepinZ that #ibérty, in the face of a dred perile. The chances that had friendéd him; his lucky find of a laborer’s clothing, his well-sustained disguise under the chaff of the hospi- table hunter who had fed him. He re- called the hunter's amusement over the guileless brogue that he had affected, and a bitter smile crossed his lips at the recoilection. To have had all this work together for good, and then to have to abandon it all, lest a° drunken man work harm to a weak little wom- an whose patient face had brought back to him the rich heart life that had ofice been his! The prison doors yawned again be- fore him, and he groaned. How they would laugh, the other inmates of the prison, whose companionship he had scorned! He pictured the whole hate- ful round of his prison life; the daily association with debased and brutal characters; characters that only grew the more repulsive as his association with them lengthened. To go back to the torture of their taupts—to the long agony of years that stretched ahead— God! Who could tell how long a chain? - The Cornishman had, of course, noti- fied the Sheriff that he had located one of the escaped convicts; flve hundred dollars reward was too big a thing to Jet slip through one's hands for a few hours’ delay, and even aside from the reward it was easy to read in the Cor- nishman’s bearing his stern, implac- able sense of justice. To uphold the law—Gerald Houghton had read that upon the miner's brow as clearly as though the words had been expressed. Even now there might be a dozen men between him and the railroad, and the Sheriff on guard beside the « water- tank. And here he was walking back to the danger point from which he had fled so eagerly. The theft of the cloth- ing would serve only to fasten more firmly upon him the shackles of the law. A burst of fury seized him as he thought of the clamped irons again about his wrists. If only the Cornish- man would kill him—shoot him in fron- tier fashién, or if— 4 Houghton came to a dead standstili. The Cornishman was standing before him. The somber, accusing eyes were fixed upon Houghton, but the speech, cold and mocking, was for the drunken man. “Hey, Davle, it's foine yer comin’ home at this hour. An' yer wife cloimbin’ the trail in the dark goin’ after ye—" Then suddenly his eyeg rested upon the woman in Hcughton's,arms. No wild beast could have matched the rage in his eye or the fury of the mighty grasp with which he fell upon Hough- ton. ““What have ye dcne to her?” he de- manded, his great body tense with pas- sion. 8 Davie slunk sniveling down beside the road, and even Houghton quailed before the wild sternness of his ac- cuser. But he met the stormy eyes steadily. “1 haven't done anything to her,” h answered. “She’s all right.” “Yes, Jem, she’s all right,” asserted the cowering Davie, getting to his feet. “All roight! She looks it, doesn’t she?” returned the Cornishman, still with that terrible rage upon him, but his sternness dimin‘shed as he looked down upon the little woman. Davie again took refuge in tears. “An’ it's foine the company yer keep- in’, too,” went on the Cornishman, in mocking scorn. “Thieves an'—" “For heaven’'s sake!” burst out Houghton in impatient fury. “Don’t stand there twaddling nonsense. I'll go back with you. I'm not trying to get away. Do whatever you will.” The Cornishman seemed to only half hear him. Davie had launched forth into a recital of his experiences, and the Cornishman was intently lis- tening. * 5 “—an’ ’'e come along from some- ‘eres out o' the dark, an’ e’ picked 'er up an’ e’ says, ‘T'll car'y ’er, Davie; it's foine; I'll carry ‘er. Trust me, Davie,” say: ‘if ye fall again with ’er ye’'ll kil ‘er,’ says ‘e, an'—" A marvelous change had come over the harsh, mocking face of the Corn- writer will have the same standing as the popular author. As one of the objects of the Sunday Call If a story carns v : ) = Stories not accepted will - be returned at once. Those selected wmbepnbli-hed’mcuhmkv; > ~ of Western writers no stories under noms de plume will publication it 1snwan. ‘’s it true?’ he asked, turning to Houghton. ‘““True, yes; but what of it?” Hough- ton snarled out the words In Dbitter rage. “An’ ye came back here — to Deer Creek—and carried her for him so that she wouldn’t be hurt?” “Yes.” Houghton flung the word into the tide of the man’s incredulity. lit- tle dreaming of its tremendous effect. The Cornishman came nearer. and lifted the little woman out of Hough- ton's arms. % “I couldn’'t find the Sheriff last night,” he said significantly, his shrewd eyés intently fixed on Houghton's. “an’—an’ the train gets to that water tank in about an hour.” Houghton stared. 0000000000000000000 0000000000000000009000 RULES. “They often take a passenger on thery from Deer Creek; no one’ll stop ye." “But I—I stole your clothes,” Hough« ton stammered. “An’ foine they look on ye. There's a bark note In the vest pocket. Safer for ye to take that than to try to—. It's all right. I'm glad to have something for any one that'll do a kind turm for Annie.” His volce caught and grew husky. “She’s all I have—my sister,” he finished simply. “Your sister!” burst out Houghton. “Then why in heaven's name do you permit—" The Cornishman’s stopped him. “‘What God hath joined together.™ he quoted solemnly, and Houghton felt the futility of interposing any word between him and his reading of the law. He reached over and wrung the Cornishman’s band, eyes meeting eves squarely. “I'll send your money back to you— I promise,” he said, earnestly, but the Cornishman shook his head. He shouldered past Houghton and. followed by the sobering Davie. strode down along the Deer Creek trail. somber diznity X Best No story will be considered that is less than 2500 nor more than 3500 words in length. The length of the story must be marksd in M 4 o, S aga- In the selection of stories names will not count. The Zine I E 3 — h.m Prlces will be well worth the writer’s name. : mscengmmuww. SUNDAY C: EFach Vil 191 = ‘Always inclose return manuscripts will be returned Or‘gl- 3 onless accompanied by return ot ¥ l 5 2 Wflnumflcdm%rum-lMMu n 4 - last -and add-ess to the S Y EDITOR OF THE CALlL. ° - SAN CISCO, CAL:. Fiction 090000300300000000090023