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Failing Community
A churchless community, a
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dore Roosevelt.
ESI St. Joseph
Ems Aspißurint
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ImODERHIZE
Whether you’re planning a party
or remodeling a room you should
follow the advertisements ... to learn
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about new things is right here in
this newspaper. Its columns are
filled with important messages
which you should read regularly.
Sidney Lander, mining engineer, 1* en
gaged to Barbara Trumbull, but appar
ently loves Carol Coburn, Matanuska
school teacher. Salarla Bryson, a big
put-door girl, also loves him. Carol’s
lather died with an unproven claim
Salaria didn’t come back that
night. By the following noon, her
father became alarmed. He even
appeared at the Administration
Building and asked for help. And it
seemed the most natural thing in
the world that Lander and his lean
nosed Sandy should be among those
who hurriedly made ready and
trailed out into the surrounding hills
in search of her. Why Lander head
ed out past the Happy Day I don’t
know. But I do happen to know
that when Barbara Trumbull inter
cepted him on the outer trail and
offered to join him in what she
termed his gesture of gallantry, he
promptly and firmly declined her
companionship. This, apparently,
piqued the lady from the superin
tendent’s lodge, for she later visit
ed Katie’s tent office and made in
quiries as to the character and ap
pearance of the missing Artemis.
And it obviously didn’t add to her
questioner's happiness when Katie
informed her visitor that Salaria
Bryson was the most superb spec
imen of vital and lawless woman
hood she’d ever clapped eyes on.
It was unfortunate, I suppose, that
Lander should have been the search
er who eventually found Salaria. He
succeeded in locating her, late the
second evening, half way up the
slope of Big Indian Mountain, in an
impromptu camp behind a wind
break. For she was woodsman
enough to take care of herself in the
open. When Sandy nosed her out, in
fact, she was quietly broiling bear
steaks over a campfire. But she had
been unable, apparently, to resume
her homeward journey because of a
hurt ankle, incurred when she had
a hand-to-hand encounter with a
wounded black bear. There may
have been some question as to the
extent of her injury, but the bear
carcass was there to substantiate
her story of the encounter.
They had to rest and make camp
on the way, which took up a night
and a day. The ankle, I gathered,
grew worse, and for some of the
distance Salaria surrendered her in
dependence of spirit to the extent of
permitting her rescuer to carry her.
At other times, by clinging to his
shoulder, she was able to hobble
along at Lander’s side. And I could
imagine how the forlornly primitive
heart of that dusky Artemis went
pit-a-pat against her ribs when she
felt those sustaining arms about her.
But the final portion of that safari
wasn’t as harmonious as it might
have been. For it happened to be
John Trumbull’s car that picked Sa
laria up, just beyond the Happy Day,
and carried her to her father’s door.
Lander, for quite discernible rea
sons, declined to ride in that car
with his charge. And Trumbull’s
openly expressed view of the ad
venture in no way added to Sam
Bryson’s peace of mind.
“The first thing,” I suggested, “is
to have Doctor Ruddock look at that
ankle of yours.”
Salaria, however, promptly de
clined the services of Doctor Rud
dock. She agreed, in the end, to let
me bring Katie and her first-aid kit
to the shack. And it wasn’t long
before that expeditious nurse had the
ailing member looked over and
strapped up.
“Will she be all right?” I asked
as Katie’s Black Maria went lurch
ing back to Palmer.
Katie’s Celtic gray eyes met mine.
“It’s not her ankle that needed
strapping up,” announced the Red
Cross nurse. “It’s that many-hun
gry heart of hers that needs atten
tion.”
Katie smiled at my small and
meditative, “Oh!”
“Isn’t it a bad sprain?” I inquired.
“There’s something there all
right,” conceded Katie. “But I’ve
seen girls dance half a night on a
foot worse than that.”
This gave me something to think
•bout.
“You mean,” I suggested, “that
Salaria wasn’t as helpless as she
pretended?”
Katie’s laugh was slightly enig
matic.
“Such things,” she observed,
‘Tiave been known to happen. She
probably saw him coming and
thumped herself with a stone.”
When I stopped at the post office
for my mail I saw Lander’s truck
there. A moment later Lander him
self came out, with an open letter
in his hand. He looked harried and
haggard.
Just then the Trumbull car
swerved in and shuddered to a stop
close beside the truck of battleship
gray. Alone in the driver’s seat was
Barbara Trumbull, with her face
pale and her eyes flashing fire.
“I’ve just seen the heroine of your
mountain adventure," she said. “She
seems less ashamed of the situation
than you do. She was, in fact, bar
barously frank about it all.”
Lander stiffened.
“Then there’s nothing much for
me to say.”
That brought a vibrata of passion
and hurt pride into Barbara Trum
bull’s voice when she spoke.
“I suppose not,” she cried. “Es
pecially as it isn’t .the first time
THE STORY SO FAB
which Trumbull Is contesting. Lander quits
bls employ, becomes field manager for the
government’s Matanuska Valley project
But all Is not smooth In the great valley
experiment
Eric, the Red, makes an Inflammatory
INSTALLMENT XVI
you’ve indulged your penchant for
nocturnal romance.”
I made no response to that oblique
thrust. But Lander’s movement as
he stepped between us seemed al
most a sheltering one.
“That’s about enough,” he said
in a voice as hard as nails.
“I’ll say it is,” cried the lady to
whom life must have brought very
few frustrations. And it was all
so futile and foolish that I felt vague
ly sorry for her. For with a shaking
right hand she drew a ring from
her finger and with a little gasp of
anger flung it at Lander.
She flung it badly. It went past
the tight-lipped man and landed in
the road dust a dozen paces away.
But Lander disregarded it. He mere
ly stood there, rather gray of face,
studying the woman in the driver’s
seat who so abruptly threw in her
clutch and roared off down the long
shadowed roadway.
I picked up the ring and held it
out to Lander.
“You’d better keep this,” I said.
“It’ll all straighten out in time.”
But Lander didn’t seem to hear
me. His eyes remained on the van
ishing car, even when I forced the
ring into his hand. Then he looked
at me, like a sleepwalker suddenly
awakened.
“Do you believe that rot?” he
challenged.
I tried, quite without success, to
laugh the tragedy out of his face. “I
His eyes remained on the
vanishing car.
went through much the same thing,
without any apparent peril,” I re
minded him. “I’ve always rather
banked on your honesty.”
“Then you trust me?” he asked in
a disturbingly lowered voice.
I tried to keep my heartbeats
steady under the questioning gaze
that rested on my face. The barriers,
I felt, were finally down between
us. It was only my woman’s pride,
I suppose, that made me fight back
the impulse to comfort him in his
unhappiness.
“Os course,” I answered.
“Then you’ll have to keep on at
it,” he grimly asserted.
“Why?” I asked with a creeping
sense of disappointment.
That sense of disappointment
sharpened as he reached for the let
ter which he had thrust into his coat
pocket.
“Because I’ve just had word
Trumbull’s putting through his can
cellation of your Chakitana claim.
He’s to head through to the mines
there as soon as a plane can pick
him up.”
It failed to stir me as it should
have. There was a cloud on my
heart, I remembered, more impor
tant than mine claims. But men,
I also remembered, too often pre
ferred facing a hard fight to utter
ing soft words.
“It’s not easy to understand,” he
patiently explained. “But your fa
ther’s patent was granted and re
corded. There’s no dispute about
that. But the Territory has a large
area of unsurveyed land, land re
mote from any center of popula
tion. The Chakitana falls under that
heading. So the field notes of a sur
vey for any claim there, where the
survey is not tied to a corner of the
public survey, has to be tied to a
location or what they call a min
eral monument, something showing
definite adjacence to some recog
nizable landmark, such as a creek or
a river or a mountain. Is that
clear?”
“I think so,” I dubiously respond
ed.
“In the case of the Chakitana
claim,” he proceeded, “the anchor
ing landmark is the Big Squaw
Creek. But the Trumbull plat shows
the Big Squaw to be where he wants
it, and not where your father first
found it. And Trumbull’s intention
is to fly in with the Registrar of
Mines and a couple of official sur-
THE BULLETIN
speech. Carol also speaks up and Erie
stops her. A shot rings out and Sock-Eye
Schlupp, an old “sourdough’’ friend of the
Coburns, pistol in hand, orders Eric to
dance. Sock-Eye is ordered arrested but
vanishes. Salaria also has gone.
veyors and have his plat reading
confirmed.”
“Then what are we to do?” I
asked.
“I want you there as owner,” was
his answer, “when that official sur
vey is made.”
“But how?” I asked, trying to
speak calmly.
“We'll go by plane,” he explained,
“as soon as I can get one in here
to pick us up.”
I found something consoling in my
thoughts during the tumult of pack
ing and making ready and saying an
abrupt good-by to my schoolchil
dren, who faced their midsummer
vacation a few days earlier than
they had expected.
I hurried on to explain to Katie.
But Katie, when I found her in Doc
tor Ruddock’s new surgery sur
roundea by crates and boxes, didn’t
seem greatly interested.
“Why the sudden grandeur?” I
asked that tight-lipped lady as I
watched her hanging curtains in the
wide-windowed living room that
still smelled of fresh paint.
“Then you haven’t heard?” que
ried Katie. “It’s that boss of mine,
getting the nest ready for the new
ladybird."
“You don’t,” I demanded, “mean
the nurse from Seattle?”
“Os course I mean the nurse from
Seattle,” was Katie’s even-toned re
ply. “Sh»’s sent up her silver and
linen. And the lady herself lands
at Seward on Friday.” Katie ad
justed a curtain pin and stepped
down from her chair. “They’re to
be married on Saturday at Anchor
age. And Ruddy wants everything
shipshape when they swing back to
Palmer on Sunday.”
Katie endured my stare without
flinching.
I studied the line of Katie’s
brawny shoulders, dark against the
window light.
She smiled a little, at my gasp of
protest, but deep in those Celtic eyes
of hers I could see the light of
tragedy.
CHAPTER XX
It’s odd how destiny can hinge on
small and unforeseen things. In this
case it was nothing bigger than a
safety pin that proved the god from
the machine.
For our flight in to the Chakitana
wasn’t as prompt as Lander had ex
pected.
“I can’t get a plane in today,” he
explained. “Eery ship within fly
ing distance seems either chartered
or spoken for. And in that I detect
Trumbull’s fine Italian hand.”
So, having no choice in the mat
ter, I waited. The Project was like
a prospector’s pan: what seemed
like foolish agitation was really a
sorting out of the true metal, with
the weaklings and the rubbish slowly
washed out over the rim of the
North.
Week by week, the real workers
were taking root and making their
half-finished homes a little more liv
able, or building fences and sheds,
or clearing and draining and seed
ing more land—and discovering it to
be incredibly rich land, land that
could grow thirty-pound cabbage
heads and Climax oats that would
run sixty-five bushels to the acre.
The twenty-hour summer day
breathed warmth into that black
bowl, touching the dead silt into life,
steaming, abundant, explosive life.
It brought growth that one could al
most see with the naked eye, hay
that could hide a team of horses, a
tropical prodigality of growth, rank
and arrogant, gargantuan vegeta
bles, grain as high as a man’s head,
too rank with straw, peas and vetch
that smothered themselves in their
own luxuriance sweet-peas that
could over-run a cabin and smother
it in bloom before frost cut the mad
growth -short, berry-brambles that
became a forest, muskeg-surfaces
that turned into a choked tangle
of grass and alder and cranberry,
tilled gardens where potatoes grew
as big as footballs, where carrots
were like war-clubs, where one
strawberry could fill a teacup.
The tillers of that soil may have
wondered where their ultimate mar
kets were to be. But they tapped its
richness and were stunned by its
rewards. And much of the glory, I
also knew, went to the women who
worked at their side.
They had waited so long to get
into homes of their own that there
was some excuse for the noisy and
foolish way they kept celebrating
every escape from tent life. Each
one of those rough-and-ready house
warmings had meant an all-night
party, with mouth organs and ac
cordions and much to eat and drink.
Yet now and then a more gracious
note had struck through the rougher
noise. When the Saari family, se
date Finns from Wisconsin, com
memorated their accession to their
five-room bungalow of spruce logs,
they first sprinkled salt on the door
step and then conducted a service of
prayer in the living room where the
carpenters’ shavings still littered the
floor.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
K/f ONDAY, Tuesday, Wednes
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EBB
Cause and Effect
“Your daughter tells me she’s
cultivating her voice.”
“Yes—and the rest of us are
growing wild!”
He’d Been Told
Sergeant— Now take that rifle and
find out how to use it.
Draftee—Tell me one thing. Is it true
that the harder I pull the trigger the
farther the bullet will go?
One Way Open
“What about your prospects of
promotion?”
“Splendid, sir. I can’t go any
lower.”
Cover Up
Mother had bought father a new
tie.
“I wonder what would go best
with it?” she said coyly, as she
held it up.
Father eyed the violent-colored
horror and replied, briefly: “A
beard!”
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Frightful Ignorance
There is nothing more frightful
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I Proving Friends /'
Prosperity makes friend^ and
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