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Copyright by will Irwin I
! tv WNU Service ?
Tliis time, fascination drew us all to
te t iba window, even Constance. There
v.ms no emotion left In me now except
f curiosity; languor of
a vague my own
■ ,'nd and soul seemed to heighten my
perceptions; and from my night and
y with tragedy I carry away no pic
lures so vivid as that of the proces
’ which from Pioneer
>u emerged the
corral.
“Rogue’s mgrebn cotamented Mar
us briefly. “Onrtvin’s tip o” • ' «*
act of our show!” And into view
marched t ’ j .■ er of the Pioneer I
■*? ,, |, f . . , ,
i 'rawn in the'.iDhF Hi ■ cheeks were
as dark as a chimney sweep’s - but h»
aced his disgrace ” L with a calm and T
, ,
with his head down. Among the dirty
and depraved camp followers of Pearl
street were those who cringed as they
& came under the eves of our outraged
cltv, and those who still managed in
the pose of head and shoulders to ex
t press defiance. Colliver, the lawyer. '
walked straight, glaring right and
left, his eyes made terrible, Insane,
I wlth suppressed anger. A little, in
drawn "Oh:” from Constance signaled
4- the passage cheeks of had Red gathered Neil. The dust powdei dur- | !
on her
! ing the night; the spots of rouge were
no longer bright carmine, but a dull;
and dirty Indian red. Her frizzes fell ,
in wisps over her forehead. But Red
Nell raged no longei. She walked with
her eyes down, her hands clasped he- |
F fore her, a ghastly and grotesque cari j 1
cature of a maiden martyr !■ 1 to the 1
r stake. Whatever womanly dignity rr
mainea to ner naa at the end ot an
her indignities come to the surface.
3 ! Chris McGrath was coining; among
;
his separate entities, this one was
mmmm new. I saw that in the first flash, be
! fore my eye began to pick up details,
His shoulders, once so erectly confi
dent in their carriage, sagged as
It ! though he had suddenly grown old.
rr His steps stumbled. His head was
bowed. It did not imply sullenness, I
this averted gaze. Rather was it the I
attitude of a broken man who cannot
bear to look upon disgrace. I under
If Bff jg stood the policy of self-preservation
which Marcus Handy had been apply
ing to this enemy of his. To expel the
jp p i| i| °ld, camp self-reliant was equivalent Chris McGrath to prolonging from
i trouble. He was bound to come back
1 fa
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“Don’t Worry, Mrs. Deane,” He Said,
“That Ain’t Him.”
I when opportunity served, and to shoot.
But his night of mental horrors in
f the Pioneer corral, the sight of the
lynching, the very psychological weight
of public opinion, lmd served to break
his spirit. 1 remember him as I saw
him first when he stopped tiie lynch
awNSk’-Aij;’.''. - ing in the Black Jack—a dominant,
heroic figure, dowered with a com
I pelling masculine charm—and found it
in my heart to pity him. After all, he
was only misplaced. His virtues of
courage, decision, generosity to his
i friends, rough personal good fellow
ship ; his faults of rampant individ
■k ■ I uality and muddled moral distinctions
—they belonged to the old era of gun
law. Sudden, offhand Cottonwood had
Hi entrusted this anachronism with en
iS forcing that book law to which our
camp and all the West must necessar-
1 ily In the end. His night of hor
come
m ror and disgrace and spiritual loneli
ness may have given him black under
T, standing, taught him that he had been
c fighting the current of the human
spirit. That, possibly, explained the
|B Wm change in him. He was not so much
terrified as overwhelmed. At any rate,
■Hi Cottonwood never heard from him
H again. Years later. I picked up the
H| iJ'ic-xo. lie iud becquuLa
| drifter from camp to camp, a protector
of gamblers, a dangerous drunkard,
until a shot in a brawl at Miles City
finished his career. He passed like the
grizzly; crushed by progress.
Chris McGrath marched between
solid lines of crowd, his bent head
now visible, now concealed. A phalanx
of vigilante guards followed; the crowd
closed in behind; the Rogue’s march
stopped, to be succeeded by the beat
of tiie drums; the deposed king of
Cottonwood had passed from iris king- j
dom.
“Where are you sending her?” asked :
Constance. ;
“Wagon’s waiting to take ’em over |
the range to Plested’s, all comfortable, |
and drop ’em,” replied Marcus.
! “Will she—” began Constance, and !
stopped. For a horseman loped down j
the street, pulled up at the door of
the courthouse, threw his bridle over
a lathered head, strode within. The ;
hands of Constance went together; I, ,
who had thought there was no ezas tion
left in me, found my breath coming j
find going ,n great sighs.
“Boss,” began the messenger—then
saw Constance and me, paused.
“All right,” said Marcus, "go ahead,
These people are safe—they’re ac- j |
quitted.”
"We!!, we’v* ref no line on when
^ >r.se;u:)n ’Tr ails
is Loo (1— n tramp, fi. lie started down
the Ludlow pass road all right. After 1
that, we loses him. What we need’s a ]
tracker. Wasn’t one in the !
" LetV Marcus “Boys'
prettv tired, I suppose <” T
■—“LOO.
at me. Up all night. And done a hard
day’s work yesterday. Horses too."
“ AI1 right," announced Marcus.
“They’re ordered to come in and put
U P their horses -” He Paused. “I’ve al
ready taken other measures to have j
cur n,an allowed tell em that.
“Best news i’ve heard today!” com
^ted the messenger as, with a haste
betraying fear lest Marcus should
change his mind, he shot through the
door, remounted loped away.
“Another public embarrassment re- I
moved from the patli of progress, as j
Henry Ward Beecher would say,’ re
marked Marcus. 'll the hoys had
brought him in, I don’t believe this
■amp would have wanted to hang him
now. Buck, guess our jobs done.’
Buck and I were looking not at him,
however, but at Constance. Across her
pallor a flush was mounting, as when
the rose-dawn touches the snows ol
the Divide; in tier deep-blue eyes a j
;
light was shining gs when the sunrise |
strikes on mountain lakes. She held
out hands—the right to Buck, the left
to Marcus—who took them sheepishly,
Buck, indeed, started the pumphandle
motion of a handshake; then, as he
perceived that her gesture meant more
than that, retained her hand; and a
blush inflamed his tanned brow. So
she stood for a moment, looking from
one to the other.
“I have laid friends,” she said. “And
perhaps you wouldn’t like to have me
call you friends. But 1 never dreamed
that I should ever ask any friend to
do for me what you two wonderful
men have done today. I can’t thank
you. It would be ridiculous to try.
But if you ever want anything I can
do or can’t do—let me—” She broke
off; her eyes became lakes indeed; she
released their hands.
“It’s all right—’twusn’t nothing!”
Buck managed to say.
“I’d do it again for you and more,
Mrs. Deane," began the readier Mar
cus. “You’re—” hut the lakes were
overflowing. Buck first, then Marcus,
backed out of the room.
“I want to cry, Robert,” said Con
stance. “Don’t—try—to—comfort—me
—please. Just watch—to see if any
one’s coming—”
So I stood for a long time, as it
seemed to me, and studied Main street
as it settled down to normal.
Tiie voic§ of Constance, sweet with
passing tears, spoke behind me.
“I think I’d better go home now,"
she said.
“I’m going with you,” I replied.
She hesitated, as though restrained
by some little, instinctive fear of the
proprieties; then, as realizing how
ridiculous that was in the face of our
situation, smiled—firmly now—and re
plied:
“Do—I want, of course, to tell you
everything.”
So we walked together into Main
street. Naturally we attracted atten
tion. I could feel with the back of my
head that the crowd about Doc Ev
ans’ window had turned from that old
sensation to this new one. had stared
and pointed. Now and then a head
craned from a window, or I heard a
rush of feet at a doorway. Eyes
ahead, we walked in silence up Hie
familiar path—should I ever tread it
again?—to Mrs. Burnaby’s.
Constance was not entirely reas
sured that Deane had escaped. T must
needs give her comfort on that. Once
I asked: “What you said before they
arrested me—you mean that, Con
stance?" She answered: “I meant it
then, I mean it now. I mean it for
ever!” But we did not then kiss or
clasp hands, as unfettered lovers may
after such words; only sat for a time
silent and looked at each other.
A spurt of sleep or what resembled
sleep; when I came out of it, fever
ishly awake, she was talking:
“—my own fault, my very own in
the beginning, Robert. A little of it
sin—if you want to call it that, The
rest just folly. Perverse foliy. I was
only seventeen when I eloped with him
from Miss Gorham’s academy at Prov
idence. That was the beginning. I
shan’t lav that to anvone else. But
* v.'.'i: tell : - j umV. It
THE CAIRO MESSENGER FRIDAY. OCTOBER 1ST. 1926.
“We lived at Warwick—do you
_
know it? A little old Rhode Island
town. The family bad been there for
ever. My mother was younger than
my father. She died when I was six
years old. I had no brothers or sis
ters.
“My father married again—a beauti
ful woman, a brilliant woman, but un
balanced. Perhaps insane, I wouldn’t
have had the charity to make that ex
cnse for iier once. I hated her. But
I think, now. I shall never hate any
one else so long as I live. She was
cruel to me—insanely cruel—because
she was jealous. I have been beaten,
terribly beaten, in my day, Robert.
But more than that. The trick of put
ting me in the wrong. . . . Perhaps
that was why father sent me away to
school—to Miss Gorham’s in Provi
dence. From the time I was seven
until I was seventeen—just school. At
first I came home for the holidays,
But finally she spoiled even that. She
had a terrible bold on father. I can
understand that, too. She was a beau
tiful creature.
“Then I came seventeen, and was
going to finish next year music and
needlework and Latin and French and
riding and dancing and deportment,
*Bd nothing whatever about life. I
hadn't even read n nwl, ttfitpt
reptitiously. I wasn’t a tittle girl any
longer, of course. I hud become a
woman. That’s the period, I suppose,
when every girl ought to be locked up
for a while Probably the French are
right ' An d of c f r f e wl h me “ the
one thing T I never had was love.
“He was the first—Martin. He came ;
CO sm ,.na,,. okoo, a piece of Ian.,
they were buying for a new building.
You have seen him. He is bonuy yet. :
But that was five years ago. I never
thought of ray ideal lover of nights
after that—only him. Miss Gorliam
had to go to look for some papers. I
^ a ° ‘ a one 1 11111 01 f aa
hew. Be^re she came back had -
write ^ to him. He had arranged to put ,
letters to me under a boundary stone
e^orj night. Ann l saw mm thiee
times. A girl in love can manage that,
you know. No one ever suspected me.
I always seemed, I suppose, like an
obedient little thing. His letters were
wonderful. That isn’t just glamour,
I read them over again just before I
came West. He truly 16ved me. There
were other considerations. I’ll tell
about them later. But he loved me. i
“And we eloped. I proposed it. I
just walked away from the school one
night after supper and met him. We !
took the train to Newport together
and were married. He had arranged
It had to be arranged. I
of course, about my age.”
“It all got into the paperA Prob- i
the marriage could have been an- 1
nulled. Rut father did nothing about
that. 1 suppose my stepmother was
only too giad to get rid of me for good,
r wrote to father. He answered with j
a dreadful letter. Martin Deane tried
to see him, and couldn’t. Martin was
piqued. You see, father was rich, j
And—well, I have said that Martin’s I
motives were all mixed up. But he j
loved me. He truly did. You see, if
he hadn't loved me, he wouldn’t have in- j j
married me. I was so young and
experienced he could have fooled me, j
easily enough. . . .
“And I loved him, but only in one
way. I didn’t know that then. I do
remember watching him one day from J
the front window as he walked down
the street, and feeling that there was
something lacking—but just for a
minute. I didn’t know for a long time
—I was so young and inexperienced—
about the condition of his business.
He was in real estate, as I’ve told you.
We lived very prettily. I wasn’t much
taken with the business friends he
brought home to supper; as I look
back now, I think of them all as a
little unclean spiritually. Nor their
wives. I was hungry for my own kind
of women. . . .
“He used to talk to me,- of course,
about his business. But I was like a
nun, for all of the world. A more ex
perienced woman would have under
stood much sooner—that it was all
wrong—every bit of it wrong. Then
he was arrested. It was all a very
bad piece of business. The papers
were full of it. We gave up our house.
We moved into a furnished room. He
was tried finally—and acquitted,
Mostly, he’d been just within the law.
But he hadn’t done right, neverthe
less ; and everyone knew it. He took
it hard, of course. He was—rebel
lious. We quarreled, too. But I made
him understand that it was wrong,
“Troubles O uue all together. My
father died. HH went to him at the last
—my stepmother could not prevent. I
won’t—I can’t now—tell you all about
that. But I knew that he loved me;
and that if I hadn’t made a wrong
headed littie fool of myself by elop
ing with Martin Deane—we’d have
found a way in spite of my step
mother. Then I was very ill—typhoid
fever. I nearly died. Martin stayed
by. My father had made a codicil to
his will a month before his death. He
left me ten thousand dollars. Some of
that was needed to pay our debts. . . .
“When I was better Martin and I
talked it all over. There was no use
of staying in Providence. He wanted
to go West and start again—honestly,
I gave him half of my money. He was
to get settled and send for me. I
wasn’t in condition to travel. I got
my strength back very slowly. I had
much time to myself—I was very, very
lonely. And I suppose when youtre in
such a state as 1 was then, and have
been so near death—you see things
more clearly. I had been greatly to
blame. I ran away with him in the
beginning as much to spite my step
<. 4 1 • pr re w ain ;
| I loved—a didn't really good love him But as I I might loved have him
man.
! enough. He'd never once been harsh
or cruel to me. That’s a great deal,
j isn’t it? And I could show him the
| j right way. I'd prove that. He had
never grown up, on one side of him.
\ and never would. He didn’t see right
! and wrong dearly—just as a little boy
;
j doesn’t. I wont pretend to you, Rob
ert, that I didn t have moments when
I I was tempted to leave him. But I
knew that if I did I could never be
happy. I should always be thinking
of him out in the world, with no one
to take care of—of his soul. That’s
what it comes down to, Robert. Sav
j ing his soul. At bottom, you know,
; I’m religious. . . .”
j She paused; her eyes, great and
j tender with shadow of old suffering.
j clutched for approval. mine I and could seemed not withhold to plead it.
j “I see you believe all this, Con
stance," I said.
“It was my job. My job for life.
He went to Wyoming—last summer.
He wrote now and then. I wrote con
stantly. He was doing well, he said.
Business. He wasn’t very definite
about the business. In the winter he
moved to Denver. I addressed him
through the general delivery. I wrote
! fj ia t I was coming to him in the- spring,
He adv ised me to wait awhile. Said
i ^ wasn’t quite settled. But I knew
the longer I wa!ted the harder It
would be. In the spring I started,
j wrote to say when I would arrive.
jje wasn't waiting at the station.
.. 0ne of Martin’s notes to me was on
the letterhead of the Canyon house in
Denver. It’s a hotel down by the rail
N Jone - ot „ “,o V Co?j“ orv nlM«*nt
m0Ilth before . i asked the clerk what
Maxwell had done for a living in
Denver. He evaded that,
„ So j started for cottonwood. You
know the res t—”
Constance dr0 p ped her eyes to her
clasped liands.
have said ail this to you
if I hadn’t been through-what hap
^ ^ Even if things possible had gone
-X lave that hfl , bee n
1 been a long ® time bring
| ’ f to . a ... Bllt ^ , 1
ng “ yse „ say “ s en
-
looked at you first „ I knew. I knew
f ou were everything I had ever lov§jJ
in ^ ar, ! n Beane and, oh, all I was
hungry for! To see you every day
aQ d know you loved me and to go
^ ec * ear l y f° think of you. But
was wrong ‘ It was where I very
nearly fai l ed t> ’
^ burst out here:
“You mustn’t say that! I went out
to capture your husband last night be
cause 1 w r as jealous ”
“Poor Robert! I had given you
(CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.)
Economy Urges That
You Drive a FORD Car A
.A"
1 In the first place the initial investment is small.
The depreciation the first year on a big car is ah
that you would have to invest to own a Ford.
The cost of operating a small car is so much less
than a big car—less gas, less oil, less tire expense, f‘
less upkeep cost in every way. A'
j
The fact that you already own a big car is just
j another reason why you should also own a Ford. ••>■••
Keep the big car for the family trips, for the tours, ';_-■
and use the Ford for running around town, for er
j rands here and there, for the hundred little uses
for which you have need for a car every day. Save
the expensive depreciation and cost of operation
on your big car by operating it in connection with
a Ford.
The family with two cars and one one of them a
1 j Ford, has correctly and economically solved the
problem of automobile transportation.
SI ■ A Ford Car is an absolutely dependable auto
BH mobile the low price of which is the manufactur
ing marvel of the ages.
|| S LET US GIVE YOU A DEMONSTRATION!
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3 £ ■ 9 Cairo Motor Corn ft a m
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Cm! War Foes Meet Once Mere
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th e Battle of the Wilderness in the Civil war, Henry Hoyt of A.assa-
1 <* usettS ( !- eft ' was shot down and captured by a detachment under command
! of T KoyaH of Mrginm. of the Confederate army (right). After a
! ‘«P se of nftl ' e than half a cent ury ’ th °™° met again ? l ? a tie \ f tended
! i the convention of the Atlantic Deeper 1 Waterways association in Richmond,
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J . 111 1 lllladel P hia -
,
FARM and CITY
LOANS
We can place loans on good city property in Cairo, both
store and residential properties, at 6% interest, to run from u
to 10 years, repayable in monthly installments.
Loans cn farm property in Grady and adjoining counties
at 5 Y 2 to 7 per cent interest, repayable annually or to run for
I period of 5 to .10 years.
j a
Reasonable commission, and quick service, See or write
,
us your needs, and we will make you terms.
Yours for service,
; Weathers & Forsyth