About The Fayetteville news. (Fayetteville, Ga.) 18??-???? | View Entire Issue (July 22, 1921)
■’ ' ■ -• ; ■ " • !»■>*,( /yp ;,- v, *; FAYETTEVILLE NEWS, FAYETTEVILLE, GEORGIA. The Clan Call By Hapsburg Liebe Copyright by Doubleday, Page 4 Co. BABE IS SHOT. Synopsis,—Young Carlyle Wllbur- ton Dale, or “Bill Dale,” as he elects to be known, son of a wealthy coal operator, John K. Dale, ar rives at the Halfway Switch, in eastern Tennessee, abandoning a life of idle ease—and Incidentally a bride, Patricia Clavering, at the al tar-determined to make his own way in life. He meets "Babe" Lit- fieford, typical mountaineer girl. “By” Heck, a character of the hills, takes him to John More land’s home. Moreland is chief of his "clan," which has an old feud with the Littlefords. He tells Dale of the killing of his borther, David a Moreland, years ago, owner of rich coal deposits, by a man named ^ Carlyle. Moreland’s description of * “Carlyle” causes Dale to believe the man was his father. Dale ar ranges to make his home with the Moreland family. Talking with “Babe” Littleford next day, Dale is ordered by “Black Adam” Ball, bully of the district, to leave “his girl” alone. Dale replies spiritedly, and they fight. Dale whips the bully, though badly used up. He arranges with John Moreland to develop David's coal deposits. Ben Littleford send3 a challenge to John Moreland to meet him with his fol lowers next day, in battle. More land agrees. During the night all the guns belonging to the Little- fords and the Morelands mysteri ously disappear. Dale arranges to go to Cincinnati to secure money for the mining of the coal. The two clans find their weapons, which the women had hidden, and line up for battle. A Littleford fires the first shot CHAPTER V—Continued. —5— Then came a puff of white smoke anil a report from one of the More land rifles, then shots from both sides — and the battle was on. Dale heard the nasty whine of a bullet in full flight; he heard the coars^ “zzz” of a half-spent ricochet, lie knew that he was in some danger now, and he was surprised to find that he was not frightened. When he halted again it was on his knees behind the big white sycamore that sheltered John Moreland. "Back, are ye?” frowned the moun taineer. And with the grimmest hu mor, “1 reckon ye had a fine, large time in Cinclnnaty. Yore friend Har ris was well, I hope. Git that money from him?” "Cut that out,” said Bill Dale. "It doesn’t get us anywhere—” A bullet threw particles of sycamore bark to his face, interrupting. John Moreland pointed to a green furrow in the side of the tree. "Ben Littleford hisself,” said More land. "He’s ahind o’ that water oak acrost thar. Don’t stick yore head out!” The mountaineer turned his gaze over Dale’s shoulder, and his counte nance seemed to freeze. Dale looked around quickly and saw Babe Little ford, less than ten feet behind him! She had crept up through the tgll grasses and weeds. In one hand she carried a white Hag made of a man’s handkerchief and a willow switch. She halted and sat up. “Babe!" Dale cried out. “What are you doing here?” Babe gave him a pale smile. “Ef pap’d shoot me, a-thinkin’ I was a Moreland, mebbe it’d stop the ever- lastin’ fightin’,” she said. John Moreland stared, and Bill Dale stared. They were in a Presence, and they knew it. Babe went on: “I’ve come to save all o’ yore lives; but ef 1 do it, ye’ll haf to make yore men quit a-fightin’ right now—jest or der ’em to stop a-shootin’, and hold up this here—and 1 promise ye on a Littleford’s word ’at pap’ll call ye a better man 'an him ’cause ye done It—” She tosswl the white Hag to him. “The’ ain’t no time to lose, John More land; hold up the flag! Ef ye don’t, ye’ll every one be killed, ’cause ye’re every one in a trap!” “1 don’t believe ye, Babe!” snapped the Moreland chief. “Yore people can hold up a’ white rag jest as well as we can!’’ Babe went paler. There was a sud den burst of firing from the Moreland rifles, and she crept a little nearer to John Moreland in order that he might hear, plainly that which she had to tell him next. “I’m a-goin’ to tell ye o’ this dan ger,” she said, “and trust to you a-bein’ man enough to do what 1 axed ye to. Black Adam Ball, he’s got a new-fash ioned rifle and smokeless ca’tridges and steel bullets; and ■ in a few min utes he’ll be hid in a cium o’ sassafras back thar in yore meadow, whar he means to set and pick off you More lands one by one—and you and Bill Dale fust, ’count o’ the beatin’s you two put on him! But pap had nothin’ to do with it, and rickollect that! Now I’ve saved all o’ yore lives, ’cause ye couldn’t ha’ heerd the sound o’ his rifle in all o’ this noise; and ye couldn’t ha’ seed the smoke o’ his gun, ’cause it don’t make no smoke. Hold up the white flag, John Moreland—hurry!” Babe thoughtlessly arose to her feet, and one side of tier brown head ap peared before the sights of her father’s rifle—her father fired quickly, too quickly for a perfect aim—the bullet bwned its wav across her temple and through her hair, and she crumpled at Bill Dale’s knees, totally unconscious. Dale gave a hoarse cry and gathered her limp figure into his arms. John Moreland waved aloft the white hand kerchief and bellowed to his kinsmen to stop firing. Then silence cume. “Come over here, Ben Littleford!” shouted John Moreland. "Ye’ve.shot yore own gyrul!” And to ills brother Abner, whose right forearm was wrapped in a blood stained blue bandana: “Black Adam is hid som’eres in this meadow'; go and ketch him, and don’t take no chanst with him. Shoot him like a dawg ef he tries to trick ye!” A dozen men ran to look for the would-be sniper. The Littlefords, still armed, came dashing across the river. Ben Littleford threw down his rifle and knelt beside his daughter; he wrung his big hands and cursed the day that had seen him born. Dale held her close. His face was as white as hers, and his eyes were flaming. “Why don’t you shoot all your wom enfolk?” he said to the Littleford chief, and every word cut like a knife. “It’s by far the simplest way; it’s mer ciful, y’know. See, she isn’t breaking her heart over your murderous fight ing now. No, keep your hands away— you’re not fit to touch her!” They brought water and wet the young woman’s face, and bathed the red streak across her templi>. They “Hold Up the White Flag, John More land—Hurry!" did all they knew how to do to bring her back to consciousness, but, except for her beating pulse and her breath ing, she remained, as one dead. Hours passed, leaden hours, and her condi tion was unchanged. Dale beckoned to John Moreland, who had just returned from Having seen Adam Ball caught, disarmed, and Imprisoned in an old tobacco barn. Moreland hastened to Dale, the new master. “When does the next south-bound train pass the Halfway switch?” Dale wanted to know. Moreland looked toward the sun. “We could make it, all right, but It’s a fast train, and it don’t never stop at the switch.” “Then we’ll hold it up,” declared the new master in a voice of iron. “This is a case for a surgeon. Get a blanket and two poles and make a litter.” John Moreland hastened away obe diently. Dale turned to Ben Little- forti, who sat in a motionless heap be side the still figure of his daughter. “It was only a few hours ago,” he said accusingly, “that this poor girl told me she’d be glad to give her life to stop your fighting, and now, per haps, she’s done it! You’re a brute, Littleford. I like to fight, myself, hut not when it costs women anything.” The conscience-stricken hillman gave no sign that he had heard. There was silence save for the low murmur of the river and the tragic song of a bird somewhere in the branches of the hig whjte sycamore. CHAPTER VI. Back Home. Every mother’s son of the feudists was numbered in the party that filed across David Moreland’s mountain to intercept the next south-bound train. The old enmity was for the time being forgotten. Members of one clau rubbed elbows with members of the other clan, and thought nothing of it. John Moreland himself carried one end of the crude litter that held the, limp form of Babe ■ Littleford; Bill Dale carried the other end. Close behind the litter walked Babe’s father, seeming old and broken with remorse for the thing he had done. The grief of Ben Littleford was touch ing now, and Dale was a little sorry that he had spoken so bitterly to him. They reached the Halfway switch ten minutes before the arrival of the fast mail. A short passenger train was on the long siding, waiting for the south bound to pass. Dale gave his end of the litter to Caleb Moreland, and strode up to the locomotive. The engineer sat quietly smoking in his cab. Dale wanted the fast mail stopped, and gave his reasons. The engineer smoked and consid ered. It was against rules. Dale swore at rules. The engineer said he would see the conductor. He did, and the conductor stopped to the ground and began to consider. "Better put her on my train,” he said finally, “and take her to Barton’s station. There’s a good doctor at Bar ton’s—” "But this is a case for a surgeon!” impatiently interrupted Bill Dale. 'They disagreed. The old trainman was a close friend of the doctor at Barton’s station. What was the dif ference between a doctor and a sur geon, anyway? Dale became angry. “You’ll stop the fast mail for us,” he snapped, “or we’ll take your d—d red flag and hold her, up long enough to put the jprl aboard, and you’ve got only half a second to decide which!” The conductor was obdurate. The mountain men were too hot-headed to bear with him longer. The positions of a dozen rifles underwent a sudden .change. The conductor immediately went pale and mentioned the law— but he agreed to stop the southbound. As he ordered his flagman up the tracks, the sound of the fast train’s whistle came to their ears. The flier came to a screeching halt with sparks streaming from its wheels. Bill Da f 8 and John Moreland passed the litter and its burden into the bag gage car and followed it hastily, and Ben Littleford climbed in after them. John Moreland leaned out of the door way and ordered his son Luke to pass him his rifle, and Luke obeyed promptly. There .was a shriek from the whistle, aud the brakes were released; the train began to gather momentum. A baggageman approached John More land and asked why the rifle. More land half closed one keen grey eye and patted the walnut stock of his- repeater. "Oh, I jest brought it along to see ’at everybody has a straight deal,” he drawled—“go on about yore business, mister.” The baggageman went about his business. The conductor of the fast train was very unlike the conductor of the north bound. When he Had learned some thing of the circumstances, he insinu ated that Dale had done exactly the right thing. He would see whether there was a doctor aboard. Within five more minutes he re turned in company with an elderly man wearing a pointed beard and nose glasses. "Doctor McKenzie,” he said polite ly; “Mr. ” “Dale.” The two nodded, and the physician knelt beside the litter, which had been placed with its ends on boxes to allow the center to swing free. He made as thorough an examination ns was pos sible under the conditions, then arose and stood looking down upon the young woman with something like ad miration in his sdber, professional eyes. "Perfect physique,” he said as though to himself. . . . “She will have to undergo an operation,” he told Dale. “The bone there is broken in slightly, making a compression; she will doubtless be unconscious until the pressure is relieved. But she has fine chances for a quick and entire recov ery, with a good surgeon on the job. so there’s not much ground for worry." Dale was glad. They were all glad. Ben Littleford laughed nervously in his sudden joy. He went down to his knees beside his daughter, took up one of her limp hands and stroked it in a way that was pitiful. When he arose he spoke cordially to Moreland. But Moreland didn’t re ply. He still looked upon his old en emy with contempt. Doctor McKenzie was leaving the train at the next town of importance, and he would wire Doctor Braemer to meet them with an ambulance, if Dale wished. “If you please,” said Dale. They reached the city shortly before midnight, and were promptly met by the surgeon. Braemer took charge of the patient, put her into his ambu lance and hurried her to his private hospital. Bill Dale and the two clan chiefs followed in an automobile. The hillmen had never before seen an au tomobile; but they asked no questions about it, and the only word of com ment was this, from John Moreland: "I don’t like the smell.” Everything lmd been made ready for the operation, and Babe received sur gical aid without delay. The two mountaineers and Dale waited in another room. Dale had in duced John Moreland to unload his rifle, both chamber and magazine. Babe’s father paced the floor anxious ly now and then. Moreland sat like a stone, with his empty rifle between his knees, and watched his old enemy queerly. It seemed a long time before Brae mer came to them and told them smil ingly that it was all over and that the girl was then coming from under the effects of the ether. She would be all right soon, lie was reasonably certain. No, they’d better not see, her just then. But perhaps they could sec her at some time (iuring the afternoon of the following duy. Dale escorted his two companions to a modest hotel aud then put them in a room that had but one bed; by thus throwing them together in a strange land, he hoped to do some thing toward making them friends. Then Dale went to another room, un dressed and went to bed. It may be noted, parenthetically as it were, that John Moreland and Ben Littleford quickly reached n wordless agreement not to sleep together—they divided the pillows and linens evenly, tore the odd coverlet exactly in half, and slept on the floor. When Dale went down to the lobby the following morning an alert-eyed young fellow sprang from a chair and hastened up to him. “By George, Bobby!” Dale ex claimed, as they began to shake hands. “How did you know I was here, any way? Your boasted nose for news, eli?” "Guilty," smiled McLaurin. “I got word last night that a mountain girl hud been brought to Braemer’s, acci dentally shot, and I smelled a feud; so I hurried over to get the story. You had just left, and Braemer’s didn’t know much about it. It was too soon after the operation, they said, for her to see me; then one of the nurses whispered to me that you had brought her, and said that 1 would find you here. So here I am, Bill, ‘ and 1 want the story. I’ll phone it in, and then I’ll give you some news.” "The story mustn’t be published, Bobby,” Dale replied. “For one rea son, there is a feud; and If the law knew, it might take a hand—you see, I think there is a better way to take care of that feud. And I am of the opinion that the girl wouldn’t like the publicity. Suppose you forget all about it, Bobby. If McLaurin was disappointed, he ■fcftpt.lt. well , to .. “They said she was handsome, a sort of primitive Venus,” he winked. “Is there a romance connected, Bill?” “Not yet,” smiled Dale. "But soon?” "Who can tell?” Dale shrugged a little. "Tell me the news.” “AH' right.” McLaurin drew his friend toward a pair of empty chairs. “I married Patricia Clavering the duy before yesterday. We—” “Bully! Go on.” “We were married in an automobile, with her father and ‘poor dear Harry’ chasing us like wildfire in another car. Yesterday we went to housekeeping in a cute little suburban bungalow, furni ture on the installment plan. Her “Perfect Physique,” He Said, as Though to Himself. people won’t even look at us, Bill! But do we care? Bill Dale, 1 ask you, old dear, do 1 seem to be worrying? Honest, I’m so happy I'm afraid some thing is going to happen to me. I’m to have a lift in salary soon, and we won’t be long in paying for the furni ture; and when that’s done, we’ll buy the bungalow. "And I’m Informing you now, old savage,” he continued, "that you’re having dinner with us this evening. You’ll find it pleasant. We do as we please, you see. If you like, you may stir your coffee with your Unger, eat with your knife, reach clean across the table, and pick your teeth with your fork. You can eat with your hat on, and you may have your dessert first. You cun have an extra chair for your feet, and you can go to sleep at th« table. Don’t fail us. Pat wants to thank you for ‘casting her aside’ at the altar.” Dale laughed boyishly. McLaurin went on: “There’s more news. Your father has been trying hard to find you. He sent a man to Atlanta to look for you. He told me he’d give me a house and lot if I’d'find you—and if there was a little more of the highway robber in me, I’d call his hand!” "And mother—have you seen her?” Dale muttered. "I’ve seen her twice sin:e the neals wedding.” “Did she have anything to say about me? Tell me the whole truth, Bobby. 1 can take it, old man. I’m big enough.” McLaurin frowned. “Sine* yuu’vq asked me, Bill, your mother—I over heard her telling your father that she would never forgive you for the ‘ut terly shameless, disgraceful scene’ you made in church.” “I see,” said Dale. He brightened and went on, “As soon as I can get my two friends down to the dining room, Bobby, you’re going with me to father. We’re going to claim that house and lot for you.” "For Patricia’s sake, I’ve a thunder ing big notion to take you up,” laughed McLaurin. “Your dad would never miss it.” “That’s it—take me up for Pat's sake,” said Dale, rising. “You’d be foolish if you didn’t. You should be willing to do anything, almost, for Pat, She’s a jewel, Bobby.” Half an hour later they caught a passing car that soon carried them to a palace of granite and stone and cream-colored brick—the home of the old coal king, John K. Dale. At the wide front gateway young Dale drew back. “Bring father out here," he said in a low voice. "From what you told me, I guess mother wouldn’t want me to come in. But you can find out about that—” He hoped his mother world want to see him. While she had never seemed to care for him as other mothers cared for their boys; while she hadn’t been quite so dear to him as she might have been— "And if she wents to see me, Bobby, let me know.” McLaurin smiled a somewhat wor- riecT shilTeT ifflil went up to the front door. A moment later he was shown in. Yet another moment, and John K. Dale, his florid face beaming with gladness, hastened out to the gateway. Young Dale was instantly touched by his father’s new attitude toward him; then he remembered the long night of David Moreland’s people, and he stif fened a little and drew back a pace. “You’ve come home to stay, haven't you, Carlyle?” said the older man, and his voice was tilled with pleading. "What you did is all right; we’ll never mention it again. You’ll stay, won’t you, Carlyle, my boy?” "No," answered the son, a trifle cold ly in spite of himself. "I’ve spent all the idle, useless years I’ll ever spend. I’m getting ready to develop the coal in David Moreland’s mountain." "David—Moreland’s—mountain!” The retired coal magnate breathed the three words in a husky tone. He put forth a hand and rested it against one of the huge stone gateposts, as though to steady himself, and some of the color went from his face. "You say David Moreland’s moun tain, Carlyle?” jerkily. “Yes.” “And you—you learned about David Moreland?” “Yes.” Bill Dale folded his arms and stood there looking at his father with eyes that accused. "You know who killed him?” old Dale muttered. “I do, and it was a shame—a black shame.” "Yes, it was a shame. Nobody knows that half so well as 1 know it,” said John K. Dale. His mouth quivered. He looked downward, looked up again. "Son, you can never say or think worse things about me than I have said and thought about myself—because of that.” Dale the younger glanced toward the house. Robert McLaurin was com ing slowly down the veranda steps. Mrs. Dale was nowhere in sight. She didn’t want to see her son; she didn’t even want him in the house. Bill Dale read it all In his friend’s downcast countenance, and it was somehow a great disappointment. * "You’ll need money If you're going to develop that coal property,” Dale the elder was saying. “You haven’t any money, and those mountain folk haven't (tny. I'll give you all that’s needed. I’ll send you mining machin ery, and expert mining men; I’ll—” She turned her face the oth er way. “I was so lonesome, Bill Dale." (TO BE CONTINUED.) International Literature. Literature tends more and more to become a vast commonwealth, with no dividing lines of nationality.—Jarnei llussell Lowell. If o in a Thirsty Place. A countryman was inscribing the name of a highly respected, recently departed deacon on a tombstone. The stone rested on an empty beer barrel in his shop. A friend of the late worthy called in to see how the sculptor was pro ceeding with the work, and objected to his friend’s tombstone resting on a beer barrel, remarking: “Do you know, John, that my dear departed friend never drank a drop of beer in his life?” “Well,” replied John. “I bet he would give something for a pint now I’* —Chicago American. WOMEN NEED SWAMP-ROOT Thousands of women have kidney and bladder trouble and never suspect it. Women’s complaints often prove to be nothing else but kidney trouble, or the result of kidney or bladder disease. If the kidneys are not in a healthy condition, they may cause the other or gans to become diseased. Pain in the back, headache, loss of am bition, nervousness, are often times symp toms of kidney trouble. Don’t delay starting treatment. Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp-Root, a physician’s pre scription, obtained at any drug store, may be just the remedy needed to overcome such conditions. Get a medium or large size bottle im mediately from any drug store. However, if you wish first to test this great preparation send ten cents to Dr. Kilmer & Co., Binghamton, N. Y., for a sample bottle. When writing be sure and mention this paper. Lucky Daddy. When Clarence was a small boy he delighted In having some one call up the office aud let him talk to his father over the phone, One day, when wait ing expectantly to hear his father’s familiar voice, it was his father’s ste nographer who* answered. She said: “Why, Clarence, he isn’t in just now. Is there anything I could do for you?” Clarence" was slightly puzzled, but answered quickly: “Well, I only want ed to give him a kiss, but I can give it to you and you can give it to him.” Cuticura Soothes Itching Scalp On retiring gently rub spots of dan druff and itching with Cuticura Oint ment Next morning shampoo with Cuticura Soap and hot water. Make them your everyday toilet preparations and have a clear skin and soft, white hands. 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