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THE GOLDEN AGE FOR JULY 3, 1913 TWENTY-FOUR HOURS-A Nevada Sketch COME at once. He is much worse.’’ That was all. As brief as a telegram. IWI Yet not a telegram, for the electric wires had not then sent the slightest pulsation of the great world throbbing through this lonely little camp in the wild mountains of Eastern Nevada. She locked very pale—his sister —as she read those few words. She did not look frightened, for women in the “mines” learn to meet mis fortune with action, and are seldom timid. She put a shawl around her and over her head, and walked quickly cut on the icy path worn through the even snow diagnolly across the roadway, and quietly swinging open a door, half glass, confronted half a dozen men loung ing round a stove in the center cf a room that was used simultaneously as a postoffice, a bar room, a grocery store, a dry goods store in a limited way, and general loafing place for all the idle men in camp. In connection with this establishment was a hotel and boarding house for travelers and “bachelors-resident,” also a “feed stable.” “Is there any one here who is going to Bill ville today?” Miss Milson asked the question without any apparent excitement, yet in a tone that compelled prompt attention. “Vel, I couldn’t say about! dot,” said the proprietor. “Sam, are you going back today?” “Gue-s not,” responded the individual ad dressed. “We’ll let the team rest tcday, and try it tomorrow. Jim Condit was going over today if you want to send a message.” “He schanged his blans, and vent across’d valley this morning to Silveropolis. ” “What’s up?” demanded a fine deep voice, as its owner appeared at the back door open ing toward the stables. “Why, Miss Milson wants to find somebody going over to Billville.” “I’m going right new. What’s the matter? Got anything to send over?” “I’d like tc go myself,” replied the girl, “if anybody would take me 1 got word this moan ing that Charley was worse and for me to come over, and all our horses are turned out, and I must go if I walk,” ending with an excited tremble in the controlled voice. “All right, you can go with me if you don’t freeze. I’ll start in an hour. Will that be time enough for you to get ready?” “You’re very good, and I’ll be ready in half the time.” The door closed with a bang, and she sped back to the log-house she called home to make hurried preparations, leaving a sym pathetic crowd around the stove. “Well, that’s too bad, poor girl. Charley stands a mighty slim show, I guess.” And the speaker pulled at his rough brown whiskers and expectorated at a knot-hole in the floor. “Charley’s a fine boy, and if he does go it’ll be awful hard lines for his sister,” said ex pectorant No. 2. “Wonder if she don’t want some help, or somebody to look after the place while she’s gone,” said a non-expectorant. “I’ll go over and see, and, Dick, you’d better get an extra lot of blankets, or hot bricks, or something, so she won’t freeze;” and he strode out into the biting wind, and in a moment knocked at Miss Milson’s door. Miss Milson saw him through the window, and called out, “Come in, Mr. Austin, I’m most ready. Is Mr. Lind waiting?” “Oh, no, he ain’t hitched up yet. I thought BY MATTIE GALLY. I’d come over and seo if I could do anything for you. Who’s gein’ to run the place while you’re gone?” “It won’t need much. If somebody’ll feed the chickens and milk the cow. If you’ll look after the chickens, you’ll find the wheat in a sack under the shed and I’ll stop as we go by and ask Mrs. McGoodle to milk the cow, and she can have the milk.” Just here a noise was heard, and a medium pair of grey horses, prancing and snorting with the cold, were drawn up in front of the gate by the medium-sized, rather handsome fellow who was to be Miss Milson’s escort. Frank Austin threw open the door to carry out and stow away her hand-bag, and dispose her wrappings, so she could manage them in the hard, ccld wind that was showering the snow crystals across the frozen pathway. In a moment Miss Milson came out with, it seemed, all the clothing in the house about her, locked the door, and put the key in her pocket. Frank Austin helped her into the high spring wagon, while the driver checked in the fretful horses, and in a second she was off shouting her request to Mrs. McGood’e about the cow, and watched by most of the men in camp who had congregated, with their hands in their pockets, in front of the ‘ ‘ store. “It’s a rough day fcr a woman to travel in, and bad enough for anybody.” “Let’s see —it’s nine o’clock, and we won’t get into Billville before dark, with the best of luck, and if the snows drifted on the summit Lord knows when we’ll get over.” “I don’t care, so we only get there. Oh, Mr. Lind, if Charley is so bad, what shall I do? If he were only at home!” said Miss Milson, giv ing way a little at last with a sob in her voice. “Are you warm?” was the somewhat irrele vant response. It was an awful day. The wind sent the few falling snowflakes cutting through Mi s Mil son’s heavy doubled barege veil. The road up the canon was not to be seen, as no wagon had o-one along since the last snow-fall, which lay about six inches deep on the level. The little mountain brook crossing and re crossing the road, and making in summer time such pleasant drinking places for the horses, was frozen over thick enough to hold up the team for a moment, and then break and let it through into four inches of icy water. Over all the snow lay soft and fine, making it impossi ble to detect the whereabouts of the stream. “It’s rather hard on the horses,” remarked Mr. Lind, after a long silence, looking at the worried, weary animals as the moisture from their wide-blown nostrils congealed rapidly in little icicles cn the long hair about their noses, “but I guess they’ll make it.” By this time they had reached the first and lesser moutnain, for they had two summits to cross, and had paused a moment before begin ning the ascent. “Come, boys,” and the horses bent steadily to their work, guided carefully up the trackless mountain by sure hands long accustomed to per ilous driving. They make the first and easiest half of the as cent and with one long pull, and stop, as Mr. Lind puts on the brake, and says: “Miss Milson, if you can drive a while I’ll walk and make it lighter on the horses.” “I’ll try.” And she takes the reins in her cold hands, and, as he jumps out, moves over to his side of the wagon. He stands with his hand on the brake till she is ready, and then says: “ ’Tis not easy to find the road, but I’ll walk ahead and you fol low me as near as you can. All right?” He locsens the brake, speaks to the horses, and as they strain forward he springs ahead through the encrusted snow that lies near the summit, and plods strongly upward, while she guided the struggling horses after him. At last the summit is gained, and they stand in the wind-swept roadway to rest. Mr. Lind pats the horses, examines them and the wagon, stamps the snow off his feet, and resumes his seat beside Miss Milson, who draw the heavy robes up about herself and him, and tucks her hands under her wraps with a long breadth of relief at having the responsibility of the panting team taken off of those same hands. Mr. Lind speaks to the horses, looks at his watch, glances at the quiet figure by his side, frewns and settles himself for the descent, which is a long, even sweep of untrodden snow. It is noon when they leave the summit, but they are both too anxious about the rest of their journey to think of the lunch that is safely en consed in a candle-box under the seat. Tehy say very little until they reach the next mountain, when Mr. Lind remarks that the wind has died away, without any abatement of the intense cold. They pause at the foot as before, and Mr. Lind resigned the reins and walks ahead until, half way up, the rock-strewn mountain road be gins to afford such insecure footing that the horses stumble through the snow, and Miss Mil son says, somewhat weakly: “I don’t think I can manage them any lon ger.” Then he conies back to drive again. The snow gets deeper and deeper as they go up, and becomes slightly crusted. It is drifted across their way in some Ipaces to the depth of three or four feet, and the horses flounder through dragging their load after them until, suddenly, just as the la t drift is almost passed, a quick snap is heard, and one horse plunges far ahead of the other and falls on its knees “My goodness!” says Mr. Lind, with start ling energy; “the singletree’s broken.” “Can you fix it?” says Miss Milson, so lan guidly, that Mr. Lind turns to look at her a moment, and asks, abruptly: “Are you sleepy?” “Not very,” she says, slowly. He smiles almost fiercely, and remarks, sar castically: “This is a heavenly place for a wo man.” Then he says to her, very distinctly: “Listen, Miss Milson. We’ve reached the sum mit, and it is bare of snow, so you get out and walk back and forth as fast as you can while 1 go down the mountain side for a singletree. Miss Milson, with considerable reluctance, lets him help her over the wheel on to the ground, and proves to be too numb to walk alone. He smiles again, and proceeds to al most drag her up and down the brown strip of earth on the bare, bleak summit. The re turning circulation and her antagonism came back together, and when she says ‘‘Don’t be so rough!” he looks as delighted as if he had received the best of news. “Now,” he says, cheerfully, as she struggles to her feet, “do you see those trees part way (Continued on page 7.) 3