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(Continued from Last Week.)
HOSE rode ahead, and beside him ran the
scarred and disfigured dog that had
nearly lost his brave life in defending
his young mistress.
Jose had not yet fired upon the man he doom
ed to vengeance. He would reserve his shot
until he was near enough to fire. He knew
they were making for the mountains; but they
should never reach those fastnesses —not if he
killed his horse and received his own death
wound. Strength would be given him to re
venge Jessica. After that, let death come to
him—it did not matter.
At last he was near enough to fire. The
speed of the robbers’ horses was beginning to
flag; the fresher mustangs were gaining on
them. The burly thief, riding bareheaded,
with fear and desperation on his face, was
urging the powerful gray beast he rode to its
utmost; his dark comrade, cool and nerved,
clinched his teeth into his blood-stained lip,
and drew his revolver, at the same time glanc
ing back over his shoulder. At that instant
a shot from Jose’s rifle pierced his side. He
gave a start, uttered a fierce “sacre,” and then,
half checking his horse, took deliberate aim
at Jose, and fired twice, breaking into a fiend
ish laugh as he saw his victim fall from his
saddle. Then, pressing one hand against his
side to stay the blood that gushed from his
wound, he drove the spurs into his horse with
a muttered curse, and swept on.
His pursuers, too, kept on. One instant they
checked their horses as they passed their
fallen comrade. One of them leaped down
and hurriedly examined the motionless body.
“He’s done so in the breath,” he
announced as he rose and hastily remounted.
“We’ll make the damned scoundrels pay
for it!” cried the others, and spurring their
horses they dashed on with fresh determina
tion.
The riderless mustang galloped on with
them; the dog only remained to guard the
prostrate body. He stood over it, licking the
face and hands and uttering mournful yelps
as he saw the blood welling from Jose’s heart.
Presently he gave a joyous bark. The eyes
of the wounded man had opened. He looked
around, he raised himself on his elbow; but
at the instant he did so the blood gushed from
his wound, and half fainting he fell back on
the ground.
“They have left me —I shall bleed to death,”
he groaned.
The dog, seeming to comprehend the situa
tion, echoed his words with a woeful howl.
Jose rallied, and the faint hope flashed over
him that he might do something partly to
stanch his wound until help come.
Lying on his back, he dug up handfuls of
the sift, wet clay near him, and applied it to
his wound; then he pressed his hand over it
as firmly as he could. If he remained thus,
motionless, the flow of blood might be so far
checked as to prevent the draining of his veins
—provided help came to him within an hour.
But if his comrades, believing him to be dead,
did not come to seek him within the time, then
he must die of weakness and loss of blood.
Or, night would fall, and the wolves would
THE GOLDEN AGE FOR WEEK OF OCT. 23
HIS MISSING BRIDE A^Y^ E
By MARY E. BRYAN.
make him their easy prey. His horse, his
friends—they had all deserted him—all but the
dog!
He looked up at the faithful brute with
agonized wistfulness. Suddenly he saw a
gleam as of quick intelligence come into the
brown eyes of the brute. He had taken be
tween his teeth "the blood-stained handkerchief
that Jose had pressed over the wound at first,
before he tried the clay. He darted off like
an arrow, first glancing at Jose as though to
say, “Courage, I am gone to bring help.”
“But he is going the wrong way. He is not
going to the camp, but to the mountains,”
thought Jose.
How slowly the moments dragged by to the
wounded man! He dared not try to rise or to
make any movement for fear of bringing on
a hemorrhage from the wound, now partly
closed with the wet clay—the Indian’s method
of stopping the flow of blood from a wound.
His ear, close to the ground, caught the far
of tramp of horse’s hoofs, but they seemed to
be going further away, not coming nearer. He
had one consolation —his friends were still in
pursuit of Jessica’s destroyer—he could not
escape them. He was wounded too badly, Jose
felt sure, ever to survive. He had got his des
erts —that was some comfort to the heart of
the young Spaniard burning with the desire
for righteous vengeance. It was not much mat
ter that his own life should end, only he did
not want to die by the hand of such a wretch.
No, he wanted to live to learn the result of the
pursuit. Perhaps they captured the robber
alive, and he could be forced to tell where he
had buried poor Jessica. Perhaps—the thought
had pain and horror in it —and yet it brought
a thrill of joy—perhaps she was still alive —
and he might find her and look into her pure,
sweet, bright face once more.
The moments passed; his wound grew more
stiff and painful, his strength seemed passing
from him. And now the sound of horse’s hoofs
was heard no more. The silence was only
broken by the monotonous chirping of insects
in the grass and the rustle of a gliding snake
or a crawling terrapin.
He lay with his face to the sky, and he
could see that it was fast darkening. The red
glow of the stormy sunset was fading into the
purple of twilight. The night would come—
and with it the prowling wolves drawn by the
scent of blood —and he could not defend him
self against their fangs! The thought was hor
rible. Yet he still hoped and with his hand
pressed over the plastered clay that covered
his wound, he lay motionless, listening intent
ly for the approach of the help he prayed
for.
The sky grew darker and darker to his al
most despairing gaze. At length he heard a
sound —the faint far-off sound of rapid hoof
strokes. As he listened, another and a nearer
sound came to his ears —a stealthy tread, a soft
rustle of parted grasses. In another instant,
a gray, shaggy head, with a pair of fierce, wild
eyes came into his line of vision. The hun
gry eyes stared at him, the eager nose snuffed
the scent of blood.
“Begone!” he shouted to the wolf, as loud-
ly as his failing strength would permit. The
creature started back on hearing the human
voice, but presently the burning, hungry eyes
again appeared through the grass. Once more
he shouted aloud, and then, feeling in his belt,
drew his revolver and fired as he lay. The
bullet missed its aim, and the wolf trotted off.
“But he will come back and bring the pack
of hungry devils with him,” thought Jose.
The next instant, a sickening sensation came
over him. He felt the warm blood gushing
through his fingers. The exertion of firing
at the wolf had caused the wound to bleed
afresh, and now he felt truly that his life was
fast flowing out. Consciousness forsook him
and he lay helpless and dying on the lonely
prairie, the wan moon coming out of the clouds
to look down on his death-like face.
How long the fainting fit lasted he did not
know. He came to himself with the sense of
a hot breath on his face. He looked up to see
a shaggy head, an open mouth that showed a
red tongue and sharp white fangs.
“The wolves have come!” was his first
thought of horror, but the next instant he
knew it was the dog Dom, licking his face, and
at the same time, he heard the sound of horse’s
hoofs close by him. They ceased, and he heard
a quick step approaching —some one bent over
him. The moon had gone into a cloud; he
could not see the face, but it was a woman’s
voice that said in the soft Spanish tongue.
“Gracias Dios! He is alive!”
Then an arm was softly slipped under his
neck and his head was gently raised and a
flask was put to his lips.
“Drink,” said the sweet voice.
He swallowed the strong stimulant and his
strength revived. The moon came out and he
saw, as a man sees a thing in a dream, the
face of his Jessica, pale and sad, but still love
ly, and seeming the face of an angel with the
moonlight on its pure pallor and the halo of
golden hair.
She found the wound; she stanched it with
more clay, and bound it with a bandage tied
tightly around him. Then she spoke to a boy
who had come with her ,and sent him for
help, telling him to go in the direction of the
cowboys’ camp, the ligths of which could be
seen far across the prairie.
When he had galloped off on the hardy mus
tang that had brought them both she sat down
and lifted Jose’s head gently to her lap and
spread her mantle over him.
“Are you Jessica, or her spirit?” he falt
ered, looking into her face.
“lam living Jessica,” she answered through
her tears. “I have passed through trials more
than enough to kill, but death did not come,
though I prayed for it. But God is good; He
has permitted me to live to see you once more,
and I pray that He, in His mercy, may permit
me to save your life. An hour ago as I sat
weeping in the cave in the mountains that is
the home of the wretch Velasco, who carried
me away, the door opened and Velasco him
self covered with blood, fell dead on the thres
hold. His mother was crying and cursing over
him when the dog, Dom, ran into the cave
(Continued on page 15.)
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