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ZEN of
the Y. D.
Novel of the Foothills
By ROBERT STEAD
Author of
"The Cow Puncher” " The
Ho mesteaders”— "Neighbors.” etc.
Copyright by ROBERT STEAD
•‘IF I HAD A GUN—"
SYNOPSIS. Transley’s hay
cutting outfit, after stacking
2 000 tons, is on its way to the
big Y.D. ranch headquarters.
Trans]ey is a master of men and
circumstances. Linder, foreman,
is substantial, but not self-asser
tive. George Drazk, one of the
men, is an irresponsible chap
who proposes to every woman lie
nets. Transley and Linder dine
with Y.D. and his wife and
daughter Zen. Transley resolves
to marry Zen. Y.D. instructs
Transley to cut the South Y.D.,
•spite o' h—l an' high water” and
a fellow named Landson. Drazk
proposes to Zen and is neatly re
buffed. Transley pitches camp on
the South Y'.D. and finds Land
son's outfit cutting hay. Denni
son Grant, Landson’s manager,
notifies Transley that he is work
ing under a lease from the legal
owners and warns Transley oft.
All of which means war. Y.D
and Zen ride to the South Y.D.
Zen is a natural vamp, not yet
halter-broke and ripe for mating.
Y.D. has taken a liking to Trans
ley.
CHAPTER lll—Continued.
— A —
Transley was greeting them as they
drew into camp.
“Glad to see you, Y.D.; honored to
have a visit from you, ma’am,” he
said, as lie helped them from the dem
ocrat, and gave instructions for the
care of their horses. “Supper is wait
ing, and the men won’t be ready for
some time.”
Y.D. shook hands with Transley cor
dially. “Zen an’ me just thought we’d
run over nnd see how the wind blew,”
he said. "You got a good spot here
for a camp, Transley. But we won’t
go in to supper just now. Let the
men eat first; I always say the work
horses should be first at the barn.
Weli. how’s she goln’?”
“Fine,” said Transley, “fine,” but it
was evident his mind was divided.
He was glancing at Zen, who stood by
during the conversation.
“I must try and make your daugh
ter at home,” he continued. “I allow
myself the luxury of a private tent,
and as you will be staying over night
I will ask you to accept it for her.”
“But I have my own tent with me,
In the democrat,” said Zen. “If you
will let the men pitch it under the
trees where I can hear the water mur
muring in the night—”
“Who’d have thought it, from the
daughter of the practical Y.D. I”
Transley bantered. “All right, ma’am,
hut in the meantime take my tent,
ill get water, and there’s a basin.”
He already was lending the way.
“Make yourself nt home —Zen. May I
■tall you Zen?” he added, in a lower
voice, as they left Y.D. at a distance.
“Everybody calls me Zen.”
They were standing at the door of
the tent, he holding back the flap that
she might enter. The valley was al
ready in shadow, and there was no
sumight to play on her hair, but her
*aca and figure in the mellow dusk
seemed entirely winsome nnd adorable.
There was no taint of Y.D.’s millions
lu the admiration that Transley bent
upon her. ... Of course, as an
adjunct, the millions were not to be
despised.
"hen the men had finished supper
Transley summoned her. On the way
to the chuck-wagon she passed close
Jo George Drnzk. It was evident that
e !;ful chosen a station with that re
sult in view. She had passed by when
s “ e turned, whimsically.
'“•ll, George, how’s that Pete-
Mrse?” she said.
t'p an’ coinin' all the time, Zen.”
he answered.
“ hit her lip over his familiarity.
; n she had no comeback. She had
f']" him the opening, by calling him
V <.Pe t j g ot q U j te acqualnt-
Mr. Drazk when lie came back
m ! for a horse blanket which had
h-lv disappeared.” she ex
r-biineo to Trnnsley.
• - ascended the steps which led
“ -wound into the wagon. The
ih been reset for four, and as
“ ws were now heavy In the
and n rf,nd,es h!,d been YD
daughter sat on one side,
H> e other. In a moment
■ ' entered. He had already had
with t.D., but had not met
Zen since their supper together In the
rancher's house.
“Glp.d to see you again, Mr. Linder,"
said the girl, rising and extending her
hand across the table. “You see we
lost no time In returning your call."
Linde* took her hand In a frank
grasp, but could think of nothing In
particular to say. “We’re glad to
have you," was all he could manage.
Zen was rather sorry that Linder
had not made more of the situation.
She wondered- what quick repartee,
shot, no doubt, with double meaning,
Transley would have returned. It was
evident that, as her father had said,
Linder was second best. And yet
there was something about his shyness
that appealed to her even more than
did Transley’s stiperb self-confidence.
. The meal was spent In small talk
about horses and steers and the mer
its of the different makes of mowing
machines. When It was finished
Transley apologized for not offering
his guests any liquor. “I never keep
It about the camp,” he said.
“Quite right,” Y.D. agreed, “quite
right. Booze is like fire; a valuable
thing Id careful hands, but mighty
dangerous when everybody gets playin’
with it. I reckon the grass is gettin’
pretty dry, Transley?”
“Mighty dry, all right, but we’re
taking every precaution.”
“I’m sure you are, but you can’t take
precautions for other people. Has
anybody been puttin’ you up to any
trouble here?’’
“Well, no, 1 can’t exactly say trou
ble,” said Transley, “but we’ve got
notice It’s coming. A chap named
Grant, foreman, I think, for. Landson,
down the valley, rode over last night,
and Invited us not to cut any hay here
abouts. He was very courteous, and
all that, but he had the manner of a
man who’d go quite a distance In a
pinch.”
“What did you tell him?"
“Told him I was working for Y.D.,
and then asked him to stay for sup
per.”
“Did he stay?’’ Zen asked.
“He did not. He cantered off back,
courteous as he came. And this morn
ing we went out on the job, and have
cut nil day, and nothing has hap
pened.”
“I guess he found you were not to
be bluffed,” said Zen, and Transley
could not prevent a flush of pleasure
at her compliment. ; “Of course Land
son has no real claim to the hay, has
he, Dad?”
“Of course not. I reckon them’ll be
his stacks we saw down the valley.
Well, I’m not wantin' to rob him of
the fruit of his labor, an’ If he keeps
calm perhaps we’ll let him have wnat
he has cut, but if he don’t —” Y.D.’s
face hardened with the set of a man
accustomed to fight, and win, his own
battles. “I think we’ll Just stick
around a day of two In case lie tries
to start anythin’,” he continued.
“Well, five o'clock comes early,”
said Transley, “and you folks must
be tired with your long drive. We’ve
had your tent pitched down by the
water, Zen, so that Its murmurs may
sing you to sleep. You see, I have
some of the poetic In me, too. Mr.
Linder will show you down, and I
will see that your father is made com
fortable. And remember —five o’clock
does not apply to visitors.”
The camp now lay In complete dark
ness, save where a lantern threw Its
light from a tent by the river. Zen
walked by Linder’s side. Presently
she reached out and took his arm.
“I beg your pardon,” said Linder..
“I should have offered —”
"Of course you should. Mr. Trans
ley would not have waited to be told.
Dad thinks that anythings that’s worth
having In this world is worth going
after, and going after hard. I guess
I’m Dad> daughter In more ways than
one.”
“I suppose he's right,” Linder con
fessed, “but I’ve always been shy. I
get along all right with men.”
“The truth Is, Mr. Linder, you’re
not shy—you’re frightened. Now I
can well believe that no man could
frighten you. Consequently you get
along all right with men. Do I need
to tell yon the rest?”
“I never thought of myself as be
ing afraid of women,” he replied. “It
has always seemed that they were. j
well, he replied, just out of my line.” |
They had reached the tent but the
girl made no sign of going In, In
the silence the sibilant lisp of the
stream rose loud about them.
“Mr. Linder,” she said at length,
“do you know why Mr. Transley sent
you down here with me?”
“I’m sure I don’t except to show
you to your tent.’
“That was the least of his purposes.
He wanted to show you that he wasn’t
afraid of you, and he wanted to show
rne that he wasn’t afraid of you. Mr.
Transley Is a very self-confident in
dividual. There is such a thing as
bein- too self-confident, Mr. Linder,
Just as there Is such a thing as being
too shy. Ho you get me? Good
night!” And with a little rush she
walked slowly down to the
water’s edge, and stood there think
ing. until Zen’s light went out. His
brain was in a whirl with a sensation
Entirely strange to It A wind, aden
with snow-smell from the mountains, j
pressed gently against his features. i
THE DANIELBVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
and presently Linder took deeper
breathe than he had ever known be
fore.
“By Jove 1” he said. “Who’d have
thought It possible?”
CHAPTER IV
When Zen awoke next morning the
mowing mnchlnes of Trnnsley’s outfit
were already singing their symphony
In the meadows; she could hear the
metallic rhythm ns it came borne on
the early breeze. She lay awake on
her camp cot for a few minutes,
stretching her fingers to the canvas
ceiling and feeling that It was good to
be alive. And It was. The ripple
of water came from almost underneath
the walls of her tent; the smell of
spruce trees and balm-o’-G!lead and
new-mown hay was In the air. She
could feel the warmth of the sunshine
nlrendy pouring upon her white roof;
she could trace the gentle swny of
the trees by the leafy patterns gliding
forward and back. A cheeky gopher,
exploring nbout the door of her tent,
ventured In, nnd, sitting bolt upright,
sent his shrill whistle boldly forth.
She watched his fine bravery for a
minute, then clapped her hands to
gether, and laughed ns he fled.
"Therein we have the figures of both
Transley and Linder,” she mused to
herself. “Upright, Transley; horizon
tal, Linder. I doubt If the poor fel
low slept Inst night after the fright
I gave him.”
Slowly nnd elnmly she turned the j
incident over in her mind. She won- i
dered a little if she had been quite
fnir with Linder. Her words nnd con
duct were capable of very broad In
terpretations. She was not at all In
love with Linder; of that Zen was sure, j
She was equally sure that she was not
at all In love with Transley. She ad
mitted that she admired Transley for
his calm assumptions, but they nettled
her a little nevertheless. If this should
develop into a love affair— If It should j
—she had no intention that It was to '
be a pleasant afternoon’s canter. It j
was to he a race—a race, mind yon !
—and may the host man win 1 She
had a feeling, amounting almost to a
conviction, that Transley underrated
Ills foreman’s possibilities in such a
contest. She had seen many a dark j
horse, less promising than Linder, gal- j
lop home with the stakes.
Then Zen smiled her own quiet, self
confident smile. The idea of either
Transley or Linder thinking he could
gallop home with her! For the fno
ment she forgot to do Linder the jus
tice of remembering that nothing was
further from his thoughts. She would
show them. She would make a race of ,
It—almost to the wire. In the home '
stretch she would make the leap, out j
and fence. She was In It for
the race, not for the finish.
Zen contemplated for some minutes
the possibilities of that race; then, as
the imagination threatened to become
involved, she sprang from her cot and
thrust a cautious head through the
door of her tent. The gang had long
since gone to the fields, and friendly
bushes sheltered her from view from .
the cook car. She drew on her boots, j
shook out her hair, threw a towel
across her shoulders, and, sonp In
hand, walked boldly the few steps to
the stream rippling over Its shiny
gravel bed. She stopped nnd tested
the water with her fingers; then
brought It In fresh, cool handfuls about
her face and neck.
“Momin’, Zen!” said a familiar
voice. “’Scuse me for happenin’ to
be here. I was jus’ waterin’ thut Pete
horse after a hard ride."
“Now look here, Mr. Drazk I" said
the girl, whipping her scanty clothing
about her, “If I had a gun—l I won’t
have you spying about 1”
“Aw, don’ be cross,” Drazk protest
ed. He was sitting on Ills horse In
the ford a dozen yards away. “I Jus’
happened along. I guess the outside
belongs to all of us. Say, Zen, If I
was to get properly Interduced. what’s
the chances?”
“Not one In a million, and If that
Isn’t odds enough I’ll double It.”
“You’re not goin’ to bitch up with
Linder, are you?”
“Linder? Who said anything about
Linder?”
“Gee, but ain’t she lnnercent?”
Drazk stepped his horse up a few
feet to facilitate conversation. “I alus
take an Interest In lnnercent gals
away from home, so I klnda kep’ my
angel eye on you las’ night. An’ I
see Linder stalkin’ aroun’ here an*
sighin’ out over Ihe water when he
should ’ave been In bed. But, of
course, he’s been interduced.”
“George Drazk, If you speak to me
again I’ll horsewhip you out of the
camp at noon before all the men. Now,
beat It!”
“Jus, as you sny, ma’am,” he re
turned, with mock courtesy. “But you
don’t need to he scared. That’s one
thing I never and Dever squeal on a
friend."
She was burning with his Insults,
and if she had had a gun at hand she
undoubtedly would have used It. But
she had none. Drazk very deliberately
turned bis horse and rode away to,
word ‘the ihCa doc.'s.
“Oh. won’t I fix him 1” she said, as
she continued her toilet In a fury. She
had not the faintest Idea what re
venge she would take, but she prom-
lsed herself that it would leave noth
ing to be desired. Then, because she
I was young and healthy and an op
| timlst, nnd did not know what It meant
to be afraid, she dismissed the incl
| dent from her mind to consider the
more urgent matter of breakfast.
Tompkins, the cook, had not needed
Transley’s suggestion to put his best
foot forward when entering to Y.D. and
; his daughter. Tompkins’ soul yearned
! for a cooking berth that could be oc
cupied the year round. Work In the
railway camps had always left him
high nnd dry at the freeze-up—dry,
particularly, and a few nights in Cal
gary or Edmonton saw the end of Ills
season’s earnings. Then came a pre
carious existence for Tompkins until
the scrapers were hack on the dump
the following spring. A steady Job,
cooking on a ranch like the Y.D.; If
Tompkins had written the Apocalypse
that would have been Ills picture of
heaven. So he find left nothing un
done, even to despatching n courier
over night to n railway station thirty
miles away for fresh fruit and other
delicacies. Another of the gang had
been impressed into n trip up the river
to a squatter who was suspected of
keeping one or two mlicli cows and
sundry hens.
“This way, inn’am,” Tompkins was
waving as Zen emerged from the grove.
"Another of our usual mornings. Hope
you step’ well, ma’am.” He stood def
erentially aside while she nscended the
three steps that led Into the covered
wagon.
Zen gnve a little shriek of delight,
nnd Tompkins felt that nil his efforts
had been well repnld. One end of the
table—it was with a sore heart Tomp
kins laid realized that he could not
cut down the big table —one end of
the table was set with a clean linen
cloth nnd granite dish ware scoured un
til It shone. Besides Zen’s plate were
grapefruit and sliced oranges und
real cream.
“However did you manage It?” she
gasped.
“Nothing’s too good for Y.D.’s daugh
ter,” was the only explanation Tomp
kins would offer, hut, ns Zen after*
wards snld, the smile on his face was
ns good ns another breakfast. After
the fruit came porridge, and more
crenm; then fresh boiled eggs with
toast; then fresh ripe strawberries
with more crenm.
“Mr—Mr.— ’’
“Tompkins, ma’am; Cyrus Tomp
kins,” he supplied.
“Well, Mr. Tompkins, you’re a won
der, nnd when there’s n new cook to
be engaged for the Y.D. I shall think
of you.”
“Indeed I wish j'ou would, ma’am,”
he said, earnestly. “This road work’s
all right, nnd nobody ever cooked for
a belter boss than Mr. Transley—sav
in’ It would be your fa I her, ma’am —
but I’m a man of family, an’ Its pret
ty hard—"
“Family, did you sny, Mr. Tompkins?
How many of a family have you?"
“Well, it’s seven years since I heard
from them —I haven’t corresponded
very reg’lar of lute, but they was
six—”
The story of Tompkins’ family was
cut short by the arrival of n team and
mowing machine.
“What’s up, Fred?” called Tomp
kins through a window of his dining
car to the driver. “Rreakfust Is Just
over, an’ dinner ain’t begun.”
For answer the man addressed as
Fred slowly produced an Iron stake
about eighteen Inches long and some
what less than an Inch In diameter.
“Whnt kind of shrubbery do you
call that. Tompkins?” he demanded.
"Well, It ain’t buffalo grass, an’ It
ain’t brome grass, an’ I don’t Agger
It's nlfnlfu.” said Tompkins, medita
tively.
“No, and It ain’t a grub stake.” Fred
replied, with some sarcasm. “It’s n
Iron stake, growin' right In a nice
little clump of grass, and I run on to
It and bust my cuttln’-bar all to—
that Is, nil to pieces,” he completed
rather luinely, tnklng Zen Into his
glance.
“I think 1 follow you,” she snld, with
a smile. “Cun you fix it here?"
“Nope. Have to go to town for a
new one. Two days' lost time, when
every hour counts. Hello 1 Here
comes someone else."
Another of the teamsters was draw
ing Into camp. "Hello,, Fred I" he
said, upon coming up with his fellow
workman, “you in too? I had a bit of
bad luck. I run smash on to an Iron
stake right there In the ground and
crumpled my knife like so much soap.”
“I did worse,” said Fred, with a
grin. “I bust my cuttln’-bar.”
The two men exchanged a steady
glance for half a minute. Then the
newcomer gave vent to a long, low
whistle.
This means war, of course, be
tween Y D. and Landson. What’s
your guess about It? And who
wins?
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Red-Blooded Heroes
Red-blooded “heroes” In novels are
acceptable enough If they are not too
bloody
BEST WAY TO PLANT
TREES ON ROADSIDE
(By JENS JENSEN, Lincoln Highway
Architect.)
Rondslde planting should be a part
of the general character of the land
scape, so that the roads themselves do
pot appear as a definite line apart from
the rest of the landscape, but a means
to an end that Is In sympathy with Its
surroundings.
The highways are the points from
which the traveler sees and enjoys the
surrounding country. It Is, therefore,
of Importance that the rondslde plant
ing does not shut out ndjacent lands.
Out on the plains, the open country
and the freedom of It is a real charm
and Inspiration.
Even roadsides lined with rows of
trees In the avenue fashion would be
n mistake. This not only would change
the broad expanse of prairie country
but would tend to checkerboard the
prairie landscape. The same Idea may
hold good in mountainous countries
where the valley Is the object of
beauty.
Scattered trees planted promiscu
ously along the highway, ns one sees
them In the forest, are more In keep
ing with our landscape nnd with the
American mind thnn stately avenues of
monarchies. It Is rather lanes that we
want, or pikes, ns they are called In
the South, where trees seem to enjoy
the roadside nnd each other's com
pany. There Is nothing stiff or sot
about It. A lane or a pike is tolerant
oven to the shy hut sweet violet thnt
mny be permitted to scatter Its per
fume along the highway.
I hnve seen pikes In Kentucky thnt
come as near to what I consider a
beautiful American highway ns any
thing I know of. They are serviceable,
beautiful and cool on hot summer days.
Native plnnts of nil sorts find a happy
home along these roadsides nnd give
their beauty and their wonderful mes
sage to the passerby, and in them nest
our birds that thrill us with their
songs.
We want this expression of freedom
nlong the open road. We want shad''
ows nnd we want sunlight. Wo want
the comfort of shndy lanes, and we
want the beautiful outlooks over the
surrounding country.
I linve passed over prairie roads
with nothing but wavy plains In green
and brown before me, nnd way off In
the horizon the purple riches on the
crest of a prairie wave. Those are In
spiring things, and they stimulate a
love for our native land.
All rqadslde planting should he de
termined nnd based on the country nnd
the nntlve vegetation through which
the road winds Its way. In this way
the roadside planting will become a
part of the general landscape, and en
hance the beauty of Its surroundings
as far ns this Is possible for a highway
to do. For instance, swamp or lowland
landscapes are of a widely different
character than prairie or hilly country,
and the vegetation fitting for these
different types of landscapes are
equally different.
Every plant has Its proper place In
the out-of-doors. To find this place Is
worth while, because here It reveals
Its greatest beauty and gives us Joy
In the fullest measure. Trees adapted
to their environs may grow to great
nge und nobility, and In this way high
way planting will become a most Im
portant task In the making of our
rural landscapes.
Roadside planting, the development
of stnte reservations und rural parks
are equal In Importance to city plan
ning, and are far greater In scope and
vision than the latter. A period of
great cultural advancement Is always
measured by the vision and the out
look for the future. Roadside planting
belongs to such a period.
Immense Road-Buiiding
Program for California
High way work In California sched
uled for 1924 Is expected to reach
$1.1,000,000. In addition there will be
approximately $7,500,000 for mainte
nance work from the two cents per gql
lon gasoline tax, which Is 50 per cent
more than the sum available during
the last year.
Figures compiled by the Automobile
Club of Southern California Indicate
that the state must provide highways
to accommodate one-tenth of the auto
mobiles In the United States owned by
residents, anil an additional quarter of
a million motor vehicles annually
brought into the state hy visiting tour
ists from nil parts of the country.
New highway construction in south
ern California during 1923 totuled
$3,464,590, which was in addition to
the uncompleted contract of 1922 und
the street paving done by municipali
ties. In addition to this work $425,707
was spent In building bridges on
L-ounty an 4 state roads.