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JfNjfW George B.
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CHAPTER IX—Continued.
— l2
Upton is willing to give up the em
erald jewel for Kynaston’s return, but
hesitates to risk his life by going to
the Mexican camp. At this point Dor
othy takes a hand in the negotiations.
Dorothy rose, pale-faced, her eyes
alight with blue fire, like two tur
quoises flame-backed.
“Indeed, I shall take no further risk
in this matter. You will go, father;
you do owe it to him. I shall go with
you, and we shall take the Bell.”
Wilkes stared at her, uncertain
whether he had heard aright.
“You —you —you go? Not by a long
shot, Miss Dorothy? Why, it'd be sheer
murder—no less! Have you both lost
your minds?”
The girl’s lips were well-nigh color
less; but Wilkes, who knew men, knew
when he saw the tense lines in her
faco that she had passed the dividing
line between common sense and im
pulse.
“But how?” he asked. “How can
you take the Bell —”
“So that no one can detect it? Have
no fear —wait.”
She disappeared with the Bell into
her own room. A moment later she
returned, her face flushed with excite
ment, her eyes luminous, standing, a
veritable picture, in the golden square
of sunlight that lay upon the floor.
“Come!” she said imperiously to
her father. “Come! We have no time
to lose. You will keep these two men
In safety till we return.”
Wilkes gave up, muttering his dis
content as he turned away, shaking
his gray head.
“Ain’t you got no sense, Upton?
Don’t you know that what you plan is
plumb madness? I’ve got a great mind
to pull a gun on you an’ not let you
go one step.”
For answer Dorothy shook her head.-
She would not betray her father be
fore them all. What she knew must
forever remain hid.
“No,” she said again quickly; “he
went for us and we owe it to him.
Whatever shall be said of us, no man
shall say that we Uptons do not pay
our debts. I have the Bell where none
can ever find it. Come, father!”
Like a man in a dream, Upton fol
lowed her out the door. The rest of
the party morosely eyed the two as
they walked down the hill, the girl
golden-haired, trim-habited; the stur
dy, square-shouldered figure of the
miner plodding heavily at her side.
Silently they passed down the slope;
still speechless they crossed the ariojo
beyond the alamos —the cottonwoods
—where Wilkes and Manuel had made
their capture that morning.
As they approached the lines of the
besiegers they were greeted with a
yell from the outpost. Twenty men
surged forward to seize them, but were
swept back by an officer, who sprang
forward, machete in one hand, his
low-swung sombrero in the other.
“Back, perros!” they heard him cry.
“It is Senor Upton himself who desires
speech with el general. Is it not so mi
amigo?”
Upton nodded carelessly.
About the cook-fires one or two
women moved lazily. The whole
camp was asleep in the sunlight as
Upton and Dorothy entered the house.
For a second the two stood at gaze,
the glare of the sun still blinding
them. But when their eyes had become
accustomed to the cool, darkened in
terior Dorothy gasped and Upton
swore softly. There before them, his
arms tied at the elbows behind his
back, stood Kynaston under charge of
a guard of four men. Behind a table
sat the blind priest, smiling quietly,
and the squat-figured, bull-necked gen
eral, who was in a furious rage.
“And you dare to tell me that you
do not know where it is, when the
padre here says that he is sure you
know its whereabouts?”
Just then Upton stepped forward.
“I have the Bell,” he said quietly.
“If you let Kynaston go, as you prom
ise, you get it; otherwise not.”
“Ha-ha!” The general uttered a
nasty laugh. “I’ll hold you till I get
it, anyway.” He waved his hand care
lessly in the direction of the young
American.
“Take him out and shoot him,” he
ordered in an offhand way.
“You bloody villain! You worse
than dog—you wretched, yellow cur!
You horse thief, rdbber, villain, ban
dit, murderer! You conscienceless,
perjured blackmailer! You dirty,
double-crossing cheat! Snide! Crook!
Grafter! Tin-horn!”
Upton was blazing, raving mad
angry. Despite the blood he had lo3t
from the gunshot wound, his face was
fiery red. The veins stood out, knot
ted, on his head; his hands were gro
ping furiously about his empty hol
ster.
"Is your word nothing?” he raved.
“Here you promised to free Kynas.on
If I gave you the Emerald Bell; I come
down to arrange the details you seize
tne and execute him, anyway. Have
you no sense of honor —not even a
mestizo’s?”
Stunned by the very audacity of the
man, who defied him even when know
ing full well what tortures lay in store
for the presumptuous, General Obispo
stared open-mouthed at Upton, listen
ing without offering a word in answer.
But when the miner told him he was
a double-dealer, and —what was worse
—proved it, he came to life.
“My word is sacred; not even a
gringo can impugn my honor!” he
yelled. The paradox would have been
funny had it not been so serious.
Obispo arose, his face twitching, his
body positively shaking with anger.
“Here, put a bullet in him some
body!” he roared, pointing at Upton.
Taking advantage of the diversion,
Kynaston drew back, shaking off his
guards. But in a moment they seized
him by the elbows and threw him
bodily out of the door. Upton, his
fingers clenching and unclenching con
vulsively, stood eying the furious half
breed, while Dorothy laid a restrain
ing hand upon her father’s arm.
Before he could even respond to ttie
loving pressure of her fingers a group
of angry men rushed through the open
door and threw her forcibly back
against the wall.
She fell to her knees. Staggering
again to her feet, she was aware, as
one in a dream, of a hideous, fury
distorted face thrust within a foot of
her father’s scornful countenance; of
a dozen dirty, evil-smelling peon sol
diers hanging to Upton as ants hang
to a dying hornet.
Then came a sharp crack and a spit
of flame. She saw her father stagger
back, sink, helplessly to his knees, and
sag forward on his face in the center
of the maddened group.
A bare five seconds she stood there.
Then the full meaning of the scene
enacted under her eyes dawned upon
her.
She was about to scream, but a hand
upon her lips mercifully stifled it. A
strong arm drew her back through the
open door, and she heard, still as if in
a dream, a voice she had learned to
know and love. Kynaston was speak
ing brokenly:
“Steady, Miss Dorothy! I know!
My heaven, if I could only have fore
seen this! Come quickly and make no
noise. Use your breath only for run
ning.”
“But—Mr. Kynaston—daddy—my fa
ther —”
“No use, I tell you! They have killed
him! Murderers! Just as they prob-
“Stagger Back and Sink Forward In
the Center of the Group!”
ably killed others last night! Come, I
say!”
There was no withstanding his ap
peal, for he had seized her hand and
was fairly pulling her after him. Thus
they began their race for the shelter
ing trees in the bottom. Breathless,
sobbing from the excitement and the
speed, not knowing by what accident
the way was clear for them, the girl
hurried along with him, dry-eyed and
staring, as one who has seen a sight
preternaturally appalling.
“You see”—he panted it out as they
ran —“I tried to get word to you and
could not. I feared you would attempt
some such quixotic thing. They meant
to kill me, of course. It would have
been better so. Then when you came
in I intended to anger the old scoun
drel at me, and partly succeeded.
Then when they threw me out my
guard ran back and I sawed the raw
hide that they had tied me with across
an old wagon tire till I cut it through.”
A sputter of rifle shots cut short his
explanation.
Pulling her to right and left to dis
turb the aim of the Mexicans, he
dashed through the cottonwoods and
ran up the slope. Even before the door
of the house could be opened to them,
they were pounding on the frame. A
second later they staggered into the
room to face the gray-bearded ex
deputy sheriff.
“Where’s Upton?” he demanded truc
ulently. “Where’s Upton?”
Beyond a brief ncd he paid no at
tention to Dorothy, nor even to Kynas
ton.
“He’s d-d-dead!” sobbed the girl,
giving way at last. “Oh, Marian, he's
dead! They have killed him! I shall
never see him again!”
The girl, sobbing as only a bereaved
daughter can, flung herself into the
waiting arms of Mrs. Fane.
She drew the half-fainting girl into
a bedroom, and so was not a witness
of what followed. Had she remained
in the living room, she would have
seen a fierce old gray wolf of a
plainsman open the front door and
with all the politeness he was master
of say to the two prisoners:
"Now, caballeros. it is your turn.
The way lies clear to General Obispo.
Take it.”
He pointed fiercely down the slope.
The two men ran hastily for the open
door.
“Don’t!” said Kynaston hurriedly,
laying a detaining hand on the old arm
that swung from the rifle barrel up
in the glinting sunlight. “You can’t
do it in cold blood!”
“There ain’t a drop of cold blood in
any American who’s been in Mexico
the past two years.”
The magazine gate clicked a car
tridge into the chamber and the nerv
ous hand swung up the piece, the
muzzle covering the fleeing figures.
“There ain’t a drop of cold blood in
any Anglo-Saxon who's seen women
an’ little children shot down an’ four
teen-year-old kids snatched from their
homes to take a hand in their killin’
bees. Seventy-flve-yard law is what
they’ll git! He’s got it now!”
The rifle spat its mouthful of lead
at the leading runner, who crumpled
and rolled over as a shot rabbit rolls.
The rearmost man —he of the artillery
fame —stumbling over the body, gave
Wilkes time to snap a second cartridge
into the chamber.
Just as the man rose to his knees
the bullet caught him squarely in the
back of the head, and he collapsed a
second time —to rise no more.
“An’ that’s a part of the debt paid,”
growled the old man, his very beard
quivering with rage. "The full debt
ain’t never goin’ to be paid off, but
anyhow there comes the third install
ment!”
Away down the hill, Kynaston, look
ing over the wavering rifle-barrel, saw
a figure come hesitatingly up the hill.
He seized Wilkes by the ihoulder,
preventing the old man from firing.
“Don’t shoot,” he said quietlj “Don’t
shoot. It’s the blind priest. Perhaps
he brings us news.”
CHAPTER X.
The Blind Priest Halts.
Very haltingly and slowly he came
across the open, his long stick tap
tapping his way among the loose rocks
of the stream crossing; then up the
hill slowly, as some wounded animal
might crawl.
In the Mexican camp silence had
again fallen. Save for a few sporadic
shot 3 and a shrill yell or two, the
place lay quiet in the red-hot glare.
Between the house and the alfalfa
fields a few lone prairie dogs perched
atop their burrows, basking in the sun
glare
"I wonder what he wants,” re
marked Kynaston. “There’s bee<3 ne
gotiations enough between us and that
bunch of hell-cats yonder to end a var.
Look at him, Wilkes.”
“Aye, I’m lookin’. I’m wonderin’ if
it’d be a lick or miss to plug him, too
Wouldn’t hurt none at that, I reckon.”
He fingered his rifle suggestively,
but desisted when Kynaston shook his
head.
“Look! He's found the bodies.”
The old padre paused abruptly as his
stick struck soft flesh. They saw him
kneel and reverently make the sign
of the cross. Then, rising, he hurried
haltingly toward the house.
“Senores—senores'” they heard him
cry. “Por l’amor de Dios —do no more
violence! I bring you news.”
“What news, ciego (blind one) ?
Where is Senor Upton?”
“Muerto (dead), senor.”
The padre threw wide nis hands
They saw his face working.
“It was wicked, senor! It was wick
ed beyond words. But vengeance is
God’s. I am old, senores, who was
once young, and I tel 1 you with the
psalmist, ‘Never saw I the godly man
forsaken nor the seed of the righteous
begging his bread.’ Seek not to hu r ry
God’s Justice. It has leaden feet, but
it comes surely.”
“I only hope it pleases him to send
it by my hand,” growled Wilkes. "What
is your news, padre? Speak quickly,
for my trigger finger itches, if you
did but know it.”
“Shoot, then, if it pleases thee. As
well die by thy bullet as work out my
life slowly like a pack-mule in the
tierra caliente of the south. Is that
a woman's sobbing, senores?”
“It is the senorita, she whose father
was killed by the brandy-sodden fiend
yonder. What Is it to thee?”
“I would speak with her. After all,
senores, I am a priest—a blind one, it
is true; but I can still see well enough
to point out to the unfortunate the only
true path to peace.”
Dorothy and Mrs. Fane came for
ward, the girl still weeping but striv
ing pluckily to repress her feeling.
“Thou art welcome, father,” she said
in the vernacular. "It is a house of
grief thou comest to, but thou art wel
come —doubly so for thy calling.”
The old priest gently raised his hand
with all the authority of two thousand
years in his gesture: “Peace be to this
house and to all the inhabitants there
of. I will not trespass long, my daugh
ter. Igo south again with my mission
unfulfilled.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Their
Wedding
Eve
By HAROLD CARTER
(Copyright. 1916, by W. G. Chapman.)
Nina Suffitt sat in her bedroom and
cried over a letter.
It was nine in the evening. On the
morrow she was to become the bride
of an English nobleman. Viscount
Addisleigh was a very estimable young
man, very shy, and obviously half in
love with her. But both had been
dragooned into the marriage.
The days had gone so fast since the
engagement that Nina had had little
time to regret. It was not until Jack
Tremont’s letter came that the flood
tide of memory came sweeping back
on her.
Five years ago they had been all
but engaged. He was a poor artist
then, and there had been a terrific
scene when her stepmother learned of
her friendship for the young man, and
of the little suppers at Renti’s, where
they had had such gay parties of
young Bohemians. It had been a
glimpse into the wonderful world for
the girl, which closed down abruptly
when she had not the strength to go
her own way.
She had not seen Jack since that
last parting, when she had promised
to write to him. And all that was
five years ago.
Her father’s death had followed.
Her stepmother, a worldly woman,
only wanted to get the girl off iter
hands. She had been touted shame
lessly in the foreign markets —that
was the way with her set —and finally
the viscount, with an impoverished es
tate, had bargained for her. At
least, not he, but the family lawyer.
All had been very decorous, and —
well, Nina was to marry him on the
morrow.
She read her lover’s letter again
through blinding tears. It was only
Her Heart Leaped as She Saw the
Well-Remembered Figure.
a little congratulatory note, saying
that he was dining alone that night at
the little table in Rentl’s, which they
used to occupy, and that he would be
remembering her.
The house was very quiet. Every
one had gone to bed early in anticipa
tion of the exhausting events of the
morrow. The girl peeped out of her
room. How easy it would be to es
cape for an hour or two, to fly to Jack,
to spend one last short hour with him,
before the drab life ahead of her be
gan !
She trembled; and then, with those
memories of the past, she could resist
no longer. She slipped on an old dress
and hat and coat, and softly made
her way down the stairs. She shud
dered as she saw the roses that had
already been entwined along the ban
isters, heralds of a joy that was never
to be hers.
Half an hour later she entered
Renti’s. And her heart leaped as she
saw the well-remembered figure, soli
tary at the far table among the lights,
in the midst of the gay crowd. And
the years that were past seemed like
a dream to her.
He did not even start when she ap
proached him, threw back her cloak
and sat down facing him.
“Nina, I dared dream that you would
come to me,” he said. “I willed it
with all my power.”
“I had to come,” "answered the girl.
“I could not start on my new life after
I got your letter without letting you
know —”
“What?” he asked gravely.
“That I loved you in the old days,”
she answered. “I should not be say
ing this, but my marriage is not of
love, on either side.”
“And you will go through with it?”
“Yes,” she answered.
He looked at her in approbation.
“You never were a quitter, Nina,” he
answered.
They dined together. It was as
merry as in the old days, for they re
solved to banish ail care or re
semblane* of the present evil from
their hearts. And he told her of his
success, and of his friends; some mar
ried, one dead, one traveling abroad.
After the meal_ he lit a cigarette and
they sat closer together, heedless of
the passage of time.
“I am glad to have seen you, Nina,”
he said at length. “We had a good
time together. This will refresh my
memory to carry it with me the rest
of my days.”
She looked at him inquiringly. “Do
you mean to say, Jack, that you still
care as much as that?” she asked in
credulously.
He nodded. “But it's all right, my
dear,” he answered. “The time to
fight was five years ago. I lost you
then —I deserved to lose you.”
She was thinking very hard. The
incredible thought went through her
mind that if she stayed here, if she
just stayed with Jack, whom she loved,
nothing could ever harm her, nobody
would ever know. If she stayed—
She glanced at the clock, and was
horrified to see that it was midnight.
She sprang to her feet in alarm.
“I must go, Jack,” she said.
He conducted her gravely from the
restaurant. They were the last to
leave. The yawning waiters watched
them reproachfully as they went out.
The street was brilliant with revolv
ing signs. Crowds hurrying from the
theaters blocked them. There came
the sound of music from the restau
rants, and the voices of the diners.
“It was happy,” said Nina wistfully.
“Yes,” he said. “I shall see you to
your door, Nina.”
She looked at him in alarm. “No!”
she said. “I must go in softly, Jack.
I must steal in. I can get on a car
and then get off in front of the house.”
He took her hands in his, and at
the very last he lost his self-control.
“Stay with me, Nina,” he whispered.
“Stay! You have no one you care
for. Be my wife. I can’t lose you
now, Nina. Will you?”
The temptation was terrible. She
fought it down silently before she
could answer.
“Only Jack, that I never was a quit
ter, as you said,” she answered. “It
wouldn’t be honorable —that’s all.”
He let her hands go, and she turned
away. Then a newsboy came racing
along the street.
“Great fire!” he yelled. “All about
the Suffitt fire!”
The headlines made her reel. She
snatched a paper from the boy's hand.
The Suffit house was blazing. The
fire engines were unable to control it.
The entire block was threatened."
There was no further word between
them. She sprang on a car and Jack
took his seat beside her. But many
yards from the house the cars were
blocked in the jam.
The house was a blazing ruin. Men
were searching within it vainly for
her. Nina heard the words that passed
among the crowd. “All safe but the
bride!” “No chance of finding her
now in that furnace!” “Poor thing,
and on her marriage eve!”
She reeled into Jack’s arms. Un
recognized in the crowd, she fought
out her problem. If she were dead —
all would be well. The viscount, hon
orably released, as herself, her cold
hearted stepmother, hardly dis
tressed —
She clung to her escort's arm. “Jack,
take me away!” she wept. “Take me
away. I will go with you now. My
past life lies buried —somewhere in
there!”
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Pheasants Hear Zeppelins.
A Zeppelin raid over the east coast
of Scotland was announced in a curi
ous manner by pheasants. At mid
night a colony of young birds became
extraordinary clamorous, the sound,
it is said, resembling a long-drawn
wall. An old man who knows all
about pheasants was awakened out of
his sleep by the noise, and remarked —
“Something is gaun to happen.” A
few minutes later the sound of burst
ing bombs was heard, and the sky be
came inflamed. It is of course, a fact
of natural history that pheasants, like
all hunted creatures, great and small,
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Stella —Has it a good table or view?
Bella —No, but it has a detective
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WOMAN’S CROWNING GLORY
la her hair. If yours is streaked with
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An Old Trick.
“Shakespeare says that the fault is
not in our stars if we are underlings."
“You bet it is. Who ever heard of a
star’s giving anybody else a chance
at the spotlight?"
Affected His Speech.
“My father wants a bottle of red
dick,” said Fanny.
“Reddick,” said the drug store man,
“what is that?”
“It is something you write red with.”
“Then I guess you mean red ink,”
“My father said reddick, but he
didn’t get much sleep last night and
talks kind of thick this morning, and
that may be the reason.”
Five Giant Fingers Sind Cities.
The five giant spans of steel, which,
like gargantuan fingers clutch the two
sides of East river, binding New York
and Brooklyn together, cost America’s
metropolis half as much as the Pana
ma canal cost the federal government.
Three of them are suspended from ca
bles, the wires of which, if placed end
to end, would more than twice girdle
tiie earth. If placed side by side,
these five great structures would pro
vide a roadway as wide ns the Wash
ington monument is high, and if placed
end to end they would make a great
bridge over six miles long. Across the
Brooklyn bridge alone 125,000 surface
ears travel every 24 hours, with other
vehicular traffic in proportion.—Na
tional Geographic Magazine.
Grape Nuts
embodies the full, rich
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foods made from wheat
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Only selected grain is
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untouched by hand, and
ready to eat.
Through long baking,
the energy producing
starches of the grain are
made wonderfully easy
of digestion.
A daily ration of this
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marvelous return of health
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“There’s a Reason”
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