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THURSDAY. MAY 19, 1921.
BLUE
MOON
Jl Tale of the
Flatmoods
By DAVID ANDERSON
(Ooprilbt bj th* Bobbt-Kemu Company)
'"“The little girl—little Hesper Dawn
■—must be quite a woman now. As 1
have written you, her grandfather, old
Godfrey Dawn, died last year. He re
pented in his last hours and left her
sole heir to his fortune, which, as you
know, is even more considerable than
your own. The estate is in my hands
ready to convey to her. The legal age
of a woman in this state is eighteen.
If old Godfrey has n§t misinformed
me, she will be twenty the twentieth
of this present month. So. she has
been for some time legally competent
to come into her estate. If, under
the terms of your will, she should fall
heir to your fortune as well, which
she bids fair to do, as no word has
come and none likely to come at this
late day, she will be quite the richest
heiress in my knowing.
* “Now, my dear Colonel, let me hear
from you. Why should a famous sol
dier, and the greatest cellist of his
time, longer isolate himself from the
world to nurse his sorrow? For the
sake of the little girl, if not for your
own—and ours—leave your Flatwoods
hermitage and come back to us.
“Awaiting—urging—an early reply
to this letter, I beg to remain, as ever,
“Your obedient serv’t,
“GEO. ESKRIDGE.”
A voice out of the big world she had
Tislted only in dreams. She glanced
again at the letter, looked hard at th
opening of the third paragraph,
dropped her hands in her lap and
turned to her companion. He had bent
forward and sat staring at the floor.
“What does it mean?”
“It means.” he said slowly after a
time, with his eyes still on the floor,
“that you are a rich heiress; and
you’ve got a —name.”
“A name!” she repeated, her wom
an’s intuition instantly catching the
minor note. “So have you, and” —she
reached in her bosom and drew out
the draft —“a fortune. And you made
them both yourself.”
He glanced at the draft; waved It
away without lifting his head.
“Keep it, please, for me till after
•tonight.”
She put it back in her bosom, picked
up the letter and sat pondering, steal
ing an occasional glance at his glum
face.
“Seven years the letters came,” the
man mused, half aloud, “and you never
received them. The postmaster has a
stroke —you receive the very next let
ter that comes —”
“You don’t reckon—?”
“Reckon! It’s a plain case. Let’s
see —every month —six hundred a year
—seven years—seven times six hun
dred —no wonder he could build that
new house —”
“Oh, well! Poor old man! He’s
paying for it."
“And do you thick that’s the way a
man pays?”
“Sometimes —maybe.”
The man raised his eyes after a time
to the bright stpots of metal in the
gathering gloom above the mantel.
“The letter called him a famous sol
dier. Maybe that’s his sword, and
spurs?”
“They are.”
“And you keep them shining bright
like that?”
“Always.”
The man was silent a long time. One
other question had come to him, but
he dreaded to ask it. He twisted him
self around so as to look into the face
of his companion. It was deeply
thoughtful. Things had recently hap
pened in his own life that had brought
the question to his mind. Finally very
softly, reverently, he ventured it forth.
“And your mother?”
The girl caught her breath; dropped
one hand, doubtless uncqpsciously, up
on his shoulder. Her lashes drooped
low.
“I never saw her!” she said, after
a time. “And she—never saw me!”
There was a pause. “Her grave is
on a hill that overlooks the river. Dad
dy took me and came up here in the
Flatwoods to forget. I guess he
couldn’t forget, for he never went
back.”
The Pearlhunter was sorry he had
asked the question. The grave that
overlooked the river! Was there not
another such grave—not three days
old; the orchids upon it still alive!
The gray eyes followed the blue into
the pensive shadows.
“I wonder what it means,” he medi
tated half aloud. “You are to fall heir
to his fortune, if no word comes. Whnt
word, do you suppose? And why
should any word prevent you falling
heir to his fortune. —your father’s?”
“I wondered about that I guess It’s
just lawyer talk. Do you think I
should answer that letter?”
‘-I think you should.”
"But what would I say? As I said
a while ago, I never wrote a letter.”
“Neither did I.” He saw the answer
did not relieve the perplexity on the
thoughtful face, and went on. "But
I’d tell him about your life here, and
about your father’s —accident, and
that this is the first, letter you’ve re-
celved for seven years.” He hesitated,
seemed to study his next word, finally
added: “And I believe I’d ask him to
come; yes, I believe I would—ask him
to come.”
“Why, of course; why couldn't I
think of that? Now you’d better lie
down while I get you a mite of sup
per.”
In an instant he was on his feet,
protesting.
“I shall have to get supper for
Daddy, anyhow,” she emphasized.
“And I wouldn’t think of letting you
go without.”
When a woman talks like that. It’s
no use to argue. The Pearlhunter
didn’t —which shows that he was
learning—fast.
"Will you eat with me again?”
She swept him a deep courtesy.
“If the famous finder of the Blue
Moon is not ashamed to eat with his
cook —”
He bowed low. It cost him a pang
in his side, but It didn’t get to his
face.
“If the rich heiress, Miss Hesper
Dawn, is not above eating with the —
the Pearlhunter —”
Wonderful Is the resilience of youth.
With a gay lnugh she danced away to
the kitchen. He tramped after her.
His two old friends, the Boss and
dour-faced Bull Masterson, would
have been astonished at the sounds
that came through that kitchen door.
The slow, deliberate, serious-faced
Pearlhunter! He was dancing about
the cook stove, carrying dishes, and
laughing as lightly as if half the
neighborhood was not out hunting him
with every sort of weapon the Flat
woods could furnish.
That supper! Bacon and eggs,
browfl toast, and coffee! And the
hands that poured that coffee and put
the sugar In, and spread the toast! It
had to be eaten In semidarkness, for It
wouldn’t do to risk a candle —semi-
darkness, but not In silence. He for
got that the girl just around the cor
ner of the table had turned out to be
a rich heiress —the “princess” of his
fairy story—while he was only the
Pearlhunter —a man without a name.
Twilight at the windows warned
him that the dark was hovering like a
night raven over the woods. His time
had come. The business of a man was
afoot.
She closed the rove hearth to hide
the fire light He opened the east
door of the kitchen, once more the
grave, cautious woodsman. She held
out her hand; he laid it upon the arm
in the sling; covered it with his own.
“Wild Rose!” he said. “You’ll al
ways be that, no matter what they call
you.”
The fancy went through him that
her hand thrilled, ever so slightly, up
on his arm. He closed his great palm
over it
“The woods shall be safe tomorrow
for you—and me,” he said, and fol
lowed the words with the boldest act
of his life —picked up the hand from
his arm and laid it to his lips. The
next instant he had slipped away into
the gathering night
Buried in the bushes, he spared a
second to look back. She was still In
the dark frame of the door.
A sound like the passing of a whis
per, like the breeze playing with soft
leaves, caught his quick ear. A gray
ghost—the Wild Man of the Flatwoods
—flitted along under the cliffs and en
tered the cabin.
CHAPTER, XIII.
The Sheriffs Nudge.
The sheriff’s barn stood against the
hillside, the distance of half a block
back of his house. He had been in the
saddle most of the day. It was dark
when he rode into his barn lot to put
up his tired horse.
So intent was he upon his task, so
eager to hurry it over and get hack to
the house to supper, that he failed to
notice a dark form stealing down off
the bluff, through the bushes, and
along the barn wall.
The task finished, the sheriff closed
the barn door and turned toward the
house.
“Sh-h!”
He whirled, and found himself gaz
ing down the wrong end of a steady
six-gun in the hand of the very man
he had been hunting all day. The
sheriff was a brave man, but he knew
where bravery ends and foolhardiness
begins. His hands went up as tjuick
ly as he could get them up. The man
with the six-gun carried his arm in a
sling. It must have cost him torture
to take it out, but he did it; reached
over and plucked the sheriff’s revolver
out of his holster, thrust it into his
blouse and put his arm back into the
sling.
“Listen!” There was no misunder
standing that whisper. “I’ll not hurt
you if you do as I say. Creep up the
hill to the top of the bluff. Keep out
of sight as much as possible. I’ll be
right behind you.”
The sheriff was not a brilliant man,
but he did have a saving grain of
horse sense. He crept—along the
ham wall, up the hill through the
hushes and into the thick woods at
the top of the bluff. The shadow be
hind him was noiseless, but he knew
that it was there.
“To Fallen Rock,” came a low, in
cisive command. “You know the way.”
He knew the way. He took it. He
never liked to remember that journey.
It brought the sweat out on his head
to recall it. Not even a sheriff —a
Flatwoods sheriff, to boot—has a stom
ach for a trump through the dark at
the point of a six-gun in the hands of
such a man.
At the spring aroffnd back of the
west end of the old cabin, he heJd
tated, undecided whether that was the
final destination, and yet dreading to
make the mistake, if it wasn’t. The
gun muzzle prodded him onto the brink
of the pool under the falls. Barely
out of reach of the spray, the shadow
came around and faced him.
“You think I’m the Red Mask. The
whole town thinks I am. Like a pack
of hounds you’ve hunted me today, but
you hunted the wrong man. The real
“The Timber Buyer Is Your Man,"
Red Mask was one of the pack. That
timber buyer Is your man.”
The sheriff started. The cold voice
went on.
“Did you ever know him to buy a
timber option? Did you ever hear of
any that lie bought?”
“No—!”
The sheriff was surprised to find his
mouth dry, his tongue stiff.
“And you never will. He deliberate
ly planned to lay the murder of Louie
Solomon on me. He’s the real mur
derer, and has the Blue Moon at this
minute. I knew It all along, but I had
no proof. Tonight I expect to get my
proof und I brought you along to help
me get It.”
The Pearlhunter briefly explained
what he had chanced to learn the eve
ning before after escaping from the
JaiL
“Had you never noticed that he
comes down this way every night?” he
concluded.
“Yes, but I understood It was to see
a girt.”
The Pearlhunter winced. His Jaw
tightened. He was thinking of the talk
that had probably been bandied back
and forth over the bar of the Mud
Hen.
“He came to feed his horse. There’s
no glri down here his mouth’s dt to
mention. He’ll come tonight any
minute now. Quick 1 Out on that flat
rock.”
Without a word, the sheriff bounded
over the two intervening stones to the
flat rock. The Pearlhunter waited just
long enough to sound the woods. The
noise of the falls made It Impossible.
With a searching look back up the bluff
as far as his eyes would carry In the
gloom, he joined the sheriff.
"Jump. I told you how.”
A prod of the six-shooter empha
sized the command. The sheriff
Jumped. There was nothing else to
do. He was still floundering about
on the inner margin of the pool be
hind the falls when the Pearlhunter
landed lightly beside him, almost up
on him. The passage was dark —dark
as the Inside of a pistol barrel. It
was a very reassuring fact. It meant
that there was no candle burning far
ther ahead In the cave. He was in
time. Making sure of that very Im
portant fact he thrust the revolver
Into the holster pocket at his hip,
grasped the sheriff by the collar and
hurried up the passage.
By the same subtle instinct that had
served him the night before, he knew
when he reached the point at which
the passage widened into the cave.
There he loosed the sheriff’s collar and
struck a match. The sheriff caught
his breath and stared. The horse, the
candle in the cranny, the saddle and
spurs, the feed —all Just as It had
been described to him.
“I never knew there was anything
like this under Fallen Rock.”
"You’re probably the third man that
ever did know it. Pick your steps
across those slivers of shale there and
get into that pocket behind the hay.
Hurry! We mustn’t show much light.
He’s due any minute.”
The one match served. So urgently
did the Pearlhunter consider the need
of haste that before it wns gone they
were crowded well back in the pocket
behind the hay.
“The instant you’re convinced I’m
not. the Red Mask, nudge me, and I’ll
your revolver back. And I
needn’t tell you that when the time
comes to net, we’ve got to act quick.”
The two men had stood in the pock
et for what must have been half an
hour, and the throb of the Pearlhunt
er’s wound was becoming almost un
bearable, when the horse grew sud
denly quiet. The Pearlhunter sank
low In the cover and pulled the sheriff
down beside him. A match scraped;
a sputtering flame hunted the candle
in the cranny; the cave, the horse,
the Jaunty form of the mnn they awalt
ed sprang out of the dark.
itVmtinued next week.)
Have you eaten any sausage yet
>om M. E. Rogers’ Cash Market? It
: just like your mama used to make it.
"ry it. Price 20c per pound. Call 105,
prompt delivery.
THE WINDER NEWS
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Goodrich
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Motor car manufadurers and
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r knowing that neither explana
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This makes all the more impor
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\ M giU, 1 adjustment of tire prices which
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\ THE B. F. GOODRICH RUBBER COMPANY
\ Your Goodrich dealer U prepared to supply you with
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Goodrich Red and GrayTubesat the 20* price ~dud*.
"Bes? in the Long %un”
You Can’t Do It
You might as well try to lift yourself in a bushel bas
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i
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J
mm**™ '*>
I
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