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...•***
Youth
%ide$
West
jj bu IPiH Irujin
K l Copyright by Will Irvrtn
WSV Service
a dreadful, dreadful night and day!
You must sleep now.”
“Eleep!” I said. “When I have a
few hours with you and may not see
you for years!” But even as I spoke
a rush of inner drowsiness made in
sincere my words.
Constance looked outside. The tent
flaps gaped wide. mr ;>og visible this
rude lit u all the world.
“This c;imn doubtless thinks about
as ■ TiJously of y u and me as it
can,” she -said. “Look, Robert—I’m
going to make you lie down on my
bed."
Had I been myself, I should have
protested. As it was. I yielded like a
sleepy child. She wet a towel, washed
my face. She loosened my collar. Her
touch, which normally roused every
fiber in me, was now heavenly sooth
ing. She held my shoulders as I
stretched out my aching muscles on J
the white sheet-counterpane; she I
knelt beside me, holding and patting
my hand. Once she looked swiftly out !
of doors, then bent and kissed my
forehead. I raised my other hand to !
embrace her, but she put it gently
back. ... I was gone. . . .
A light shone in my face, I sprang j
up sitting. Twilight without. Mrs. 1
Barnaby shading an oil lamp with her
hand.
“Seven o’clock!” said Mrs. Barnaby.
“Your boss lias been lookin’ over the
hull camp for you. Says he’s wanted
at town meetin’ and you’ve got to get
out the paper, though why it should
get out—”
“Where’s Constance—Mrs. Deane?”
I asked. 1
“Her? Oh, she took the two o’clock j
stage to Denver. Didn’t she tell *he
was goin’ to?” I
:
CHAPTER XIV
My decision to stay at Cottonwood
and face it all down proved ridicu
lously more easy than I thought when
I matched nobilities with Constance.
Disgrace is a coward; it retreats be
fore a bold front. The indifferent
world in the end always takes toward
It the attitude that you take yourself.
Nor, indeed, did Cottonwood probably
think me disgraced. They gossiped,
of course; I had for a long time an
uncomfortable sense that fp'oups had
pointed me out when 1 passed. But
to my face men showed only cordial
ity—sometimes a trifle overdone, and
more galling than public reproach.
Even that had passed. A mining
camp runs with bewildering speed its
course from birth to senile decay.
Twenty years of Europe! In a month
Cottonwood lived a cycle of Cathay. !
Before August columbines, blew the decked petals the from for- j
the white
ests with their flaunting sisters in red
j j and tlty. yellow, Events we few had weeks become before a new en
a were
as ancient history as though they had
happened to my grandfather,
Constance wrote from Denver. On
the surface this was merely a friendly
letter such as any married woman
j might address to a young man who
had rendered her service. Yet the in
tention shines through the written ex
j pression; and as by an arrangement
j of words too subtle for analysis I knew
that Constance Deane had not changed
i toward me, never would change.* She
had found Martin Deane; had seen
him once. “But he thinks it better,
considering his position, that we
j should not be together for the pres
ent—either here or traveling,” she
wrote.
J 11 all I had six letters from her that
autumn—I have them yet. After that
she did not refer again even to Mar
tin Deane; only the fourth said:
“If there is any change in my situa
tion I shall let you know at once.”
Meantime I had resumed my regular
| correspondence with mother, much
neglected of late. Into it I poured
something of the soul and fervor with
which I would have liked to infuse my
j letters to Constance. The shrewd eye
| of motherhood seemed dimly and un
easily to perceive the meaning behind
j this change; her commonplaces about
Cohasset were sprinkled with hints
that I must have had enougli of the
1 West. By November, indeed, she ad
l vised me openly to come home, at
; least for the winter. “I want to look
j you over, Robert!” thought—if she wrote. Poor
mother—I she only knew!
j And I speculated on happiness, as one
| will in the depths ot misery, imagining
j her in the capacity of mother-in-law.
If I had met Constance in ordinary
happy circumstances, wooed her se
renely and according to the normal
j pattern of courting had in mother's but time
| and place, I no doubt they
would have got on wonderfully. They
were just like enough, just different
enough. The souls of both were built
od a solid structure of honor. Both—
to use a word much degenerate in
meaning since the days of my youth—
' were ladies. Both had enormous ea
gacities for friendship with women.
much provocation 1” was all she said
to that. “And then—I found him. I
was riding up the trail to Forty-Rod.
He came out of the pines. He was
riding a black horse. Of course he
was astonished. And yet he was glad.
He—I felt he still loved me, in spite
of the way he’d kept me in the East.
That was the main thing. Robert. Not
that I wanted him to love me—with
you in the world. But so long as he
loved me—there was a chance. He
was mining above Forty-Rod. They
expected to strike it soon, he said.
Three weeks would tell the story.
Then he’d come down to me. And
we’d go way together. If I wanted to
go away. And I did. It hurt, but I
did. I was afraid—with you in Cot
tonwood, Robert. I asked to go up
and stay with him at Forty-Rod. But
he wouldn’t have that. He said the
place was too rough. He asked me
not to tell anyone, for the present,
that I had a husband here. Just let
things stand as they were—for ii/ree
weeks. I said: ‘Martin, you’ve gone
wrong again!’ He laughed and said :
‘Not very.’
“And I came home, and did let
things stand as they were. It was
l m
h.
' <
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7
■A
V
j
v.
I
Constance Dropped Her Eyes to Her
Clasped Hands.
only three weeks, after all. And I
would see you—and then no more,
“Last night he came to the tent
Came, he said, just because he wanted j
to see me. He had been drinking, j
That isn’t one of his vices, usually, j
He said that things were going won- 1
three derfully. days He’d to take be ready away. in I two made or j
me
hirn promise to go straight back to
the claim. I wanted to go with him
to his horse. He objected to that. But
he promised—”
“And broke his promise 1” I inter
polated hotly.
“I think he intended to, neverthe
less. Mrs. Barnaby told me this morn
ing—about the robbery and the vigi
lance committee. She’s the only per
son I’ve ever taken into my confidence,
and she not very far. Probably-she’s
guessed some of the rest. I found
they’d killed three men at Forty-Rod,
and had two in jail—to hang. I went
to the Jail. Through the side window
I saw Martin. I appealed to you. And
you saved me. That’s all, I think.”
Her shoulders, held so proudly erect,
drooped now.
“No, It wasn’t all,” I said. “Haven’t
you had enough, Constance? You
surely don’t hope—”
Her eyes lifted somberly to mine
as she interrupted :
“I’m not thinking of hope. There is
very little hope perhaps—now. All I
know is that 1 am stiil the one chance
he has. And that l still have a Hold,
I must follow him—try to find him.
And when I find him—of course that
isn’t pleasant to contemplate. My
money is nearly gone. I shall be
poor. Perhaps—rhe will go to jail,
And I shall be a convict's wife. But,
Robert, what would you think of a
woman who abandoned her child just
because it was idiotic or crippled or
vicious? I’d be doing the same thing.
More. If I should get a common di
vorce and marry you, it would be to
me as though we had conspired to kill
him to get him out of the way.”
Her eyes, until now so dry and sol
emnly thoughtful, welled for an in
stant with tears. But she checked
them as by effort of the will.
“It is your soul I have been loving
all this time, Constance,” I said, “and
I cannot deny your soul. I think you
will fail, because I think you are try
ing something which cannot succeed,
And then I will come to you again,
For I shall never love anyone else,
He may have you, but you are always
mine.”
“Yes, Robert, always!” she said.
“You nmst promise me that if the
time comes when I may help cleanly—
you will let me.”
“I promise. What are you going to
do, Robert?”
“I shall stay here and face it—if
there is anything to face,” I said. “1
am a rich man, you know, Constance,”
I added. “I don't mean my mining
property—but I never have to think
of money. I could go East and put
this behind me. But I want to face it
Because I’ll be nearer you. And be
cause you—because I can’t let you be
any stronger than I.”
She nodded slowly, solemnly.
“That’s good,” she said. “Not the
part about me—but about you. It is
you as I’d like you to be.” Then she
smiled, almost like her old self in her
merry moods, “Can’t we forget this
morning—for a moment? And oh,
Robert, you are so tired! You’ve had
his carpet bag. and took the stage to
Denver, leaving me cocked up on the
dizzy eminence of the editorial chair
There followed a period of hare’
work and trying but interesting re
sponsibility. Marcus intended to be
gone only a week; but the big snow
carae, blocking the passes. It was;
ten days, in fact, before he appeared
at the office without the grace of warn
ing by telegraph, walked in upon :
the icicles hanging from his mustache.
With scarcely a word of greeting or of j
news, he plunged into the business of
supervising the night's work. When
the printers had an hours copy ahead
“Get on your coat and come over to I
Iluffaker’s the private room. I’ve got
a heap of things to spill about that
D(inver f)Usiliess < I don't want to
tell ’em here.” V,'e plodded over to
Huffaker’s, silent perforce in the face
an art ^ c He took off his
buffalo coat, warmed his hands at the
red-hot stove, before he began ab
ruptly:
“What I want to talk to you about
isn’t business. It’s your girl.” [
“Is she—Is she well?” I asked.
“Well, and reasonably happy, I
guess,” „ replied Marcus. “Now sit ..
you
down and keep your shirt on. I’ve got i
a lot to tell you.” He came over from j
the stove, sat down at the table oppo
site me, turned on me a look more
nearly tender than ever I had seen in j
his face. But his first words seemed
remote from the subject.
“You remember Mike the detec
tive?”
“Yes.”
Marcus nodded.
“Well, he’s no common detective,
Fancy operative, and all that. When
Mr. Taylor hired him, lie had to sign
a year’s contract. Everything was
rounded up long before anybody ex- |
pected. And there was Mike, eating
his head off. So Mr. Taylor lent tne
Mike. Little testimonial of esteem
for my work in stabilizing finance in
this camp.
“I set him to looking up this Mar
tin Deane. For satisfaction of my j
own curiosity. And your peace of j
mind, boy. !
“How Mike went at it, I haven’t |
asked. But he has a circle special of wire crooks run- in j
ning down to every
the West. Since Deane, alias Max- j
well, left here, he’s been hanging j
round various camps in range of Den- j
ver. He’s been telling Mrs. Deane,
just as I told you, that he shouldn’t
go East with her for the present, be
cause it isn’t safe for them to be seen
together. Hasn’t occurred to you, has
it, that they might travel separately
and I ust meet somewhere? It has oc
curred to Mrs. Deane—I guess—but I
suspect she’s been fooling because herself, j
Anyhow, I was stringing you j
I wanted him right here in the West.
And he was stringing her because he
wasn’t alone in his wanderings. He j
had company. better This and man’s the bad West makes in j !
the good worse,
my opinion. And does it sudden.
Crooks always have queer spots of vir
tue in them, too. The marrying
crook’s common. Like any other speci
men of that species, he wants what |
he wants so hard that he doesn’t care
how he gets it. But he has a whim
for sanctifying his Intentions on wom
enfolks with holy matrimony. And,
like most men, he’s capable of fancy
ing two women at one and the same
time. This Martin Deane, for exam
ple. /Mike found ’em last month.
He’s been working since to identify
the signatures. And they’re authen
tic.” He spread out two documents
on the table.
An order of divorce. Martin Deane j I
of Wyoming from Constance Deane of
Rhode Island. Cause, desertion. Dat- j
ed last February. A marriage cer-1 j
tificate. Martin Deane of Wyoming to
Lucy Baldwyn of Wyoming. Dated j
two days later—
“Don’t let your emotions get away
with you until I have ’told you the
rest,” said Marcus. I gripped myself,
and listened.
“The divorce is right and it isn’t
right. There’s other camps in this
West that need a clean-up. That”—
he pointed at the date line on the pa
pel's—“is one of them. No lawyer
needed to see that this divorce won’t
hold water if the other party wants
to fight. He hadn’t lived long
in Wyoming to establish a legal
denee. The court—on the Judge
Cowau pattern, only worse, I guess—
has delicately refrained from
ing into that, Other party wagn't
notified either. If I was a young man
with any intention of marrying a lady
in that fix. I’d wait until she got di
vorced proper and legal on her own
account. Mrs. Deane says—”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Yes. Found an afternoon off to
call. Me and Mike, and afterward me
alone. She’s plumb sick and tired of
this Martin Deane at last. Wouldn't
have the spirit of a squashed tar baby
if she wasn’t.”
E O MESSENGER. FRIDAY. OCTOBER I5TH. 1926.
Aid the good-hunx>re<r candor of Con
stance -would be a foil for mother's
peppery wit. As it was—well, mother
boasted that her set in Cohasset had
never known divorce or scandal. If
ever life opened again for me I must
come to Constance across events be
yond comprehension of mother's circle,
And still I had faith that Constance
would overcome all this—because she
was Constance. At the end of tiiese
meditations I would pull myself up
and realize that I had been dreaming,
as a prisoner for life dreams of moun
tains and seas and green fields.
As the camp boomed, so did the
Courier. We were publishing six
pages on Wednesdays and Sundays
now; and our job-orinting department,
in spite of the increase in power, ran
two weeks behind its orders. Just be
fore the big snow Marcus wrote a
week's editorials in advance,
I rose.
‘•I’m poing to Denver!" I said.
“All right, give you a vacation if
you want it,” responded Marcus with
a beaming smile. “Onlv if I were you,
on the way to Denver I’d glance
j a moment into the ladies’ parlor of
this hotel. It’s fixed with Jim
faker that vou aren’t to M disturbed
if you want to loaf ar. ; ger
a little while.”
I flew down the corridor. Constance
rose from the sofa; faced me. But
as 1 sprang toward her. my arms out
stretched, she stopped me with an up
lifted hand.
“Robert,” she said—and her sylla
bies dropped like honey—“I
waited for you. I wanted to come to
you —because you’ve been brave and
because it happened here—and
cause you’ve suffered so much for me
—and because I couldn't wait—and
now, Robert, my lover—if you want
me—come the rest of the way—”
[THE END.]
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SALES AND SERVICE
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W ants Names of Those
Left Orphans by War
Senator Wm. J. Harris is
Besses fathers to secure were the anHirC? killed died
or of
or illness in connection with the W
War, as he introduced which!' U
a bill
came a law at the last session provid
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