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Black
Rock
By RALPH CONNOR
This was the real rareweii/ for,
though In the early light of the next
morning 200 men stood silent about the
stage and as it moved out waved their
hats and yelled madly, this was the
last touch they had of her hand. Her
place was bp on the driver's seat be
tween Abe and Mr. Craig, who held
little Marjorie on his knee. The rest
of the guard of honor were to follow
with Graeme’s team. It was Winton’s
fine sense that kept Graeme from fol
lowing them close. “Let her go out
alone,” ho said, and so we held back
and watched her go.
She stood with her back toward Abe's
plunging four horse team and, steady
ing herself with one hand on Abe’s
shoulder, gassed .down upon us. Her
head was bare, her lips parted in a
smile, her eycB glowing with their own
deep light, and so, facing us, erect and
smiling, she drove away, waving us
farewell till Abe swung bis team into
the canyon road and wo saw her no
more. A sigh shuddered through the
crowd, and, with a sob in his voice,
Wlnton said, “God help us all!”
I close my eyes and see it all again—
the waving crowd of dark faced men,
the plunging horses, and, high up be
side the driver, the swaying, smiling,
waving figure, and about all the moun
tains, framing the picture with their
dork sides and white peaks tipped with
the gold of the rising sun. It is a pic
ture I love to look upon, albeit it calls
up another that I can never see but
through tears.
I look across a strip of ever widening
water at a group of men upon the
wharf, standing with heads uncovered,
every man a hero, though not a man
of them suspects it, least of all the
man who stands in front, strong, reso
lute, self conquered, and, gazing long,
I think 1 see him turn again to his
place nmong the men of the mountains,
not forgetting, but every day remem
bering, the great love that came to him
and remembering, too, that love is not,
all. It is then the tears come.
But for that picture two of us at least
are better men today.
CHAPTER XIII.
now NKLSOk GAME HOME,
anraTHROUGH the long summer
£ J the mountains and the pines
were with me, and through
the winter, too, busy as I was
filling in my Black Rock skotches for
the railway people who would still
persist in ordering them by the dozen,
the memory of that stirring life would
come over me, and once more I would
1 be among the silent pines and the
mighty snow peaked mountains, and
before me would appear the red shirt-
ed shanty men or dark faced miners,
grent, free, bold fellows, driving me al
most mad; with the desire to seize and
fix.those swiftly ckangiug groups of
picturesque figures. At such times I
would drop my sketch and with eager
brush seize a group, a fnco, a figure,
and that is how my studio comes to be
filled with the men of Black Rock.
There they ni’e about me--Grneme and
the men from the woods, Sandy, Bap
tiste, the Campbells and, in mauy atti
tudes and groups,' old man Nelson;
Craig, too, and his miners, Shaw, Geov
die, Nixon, poor old Billy and the keep
er of the league saloon.
It seemed as if I lived among them,
and the illusion was greatly helped by
the vivid letters Graeme sent me from
time to time. Brief notes came now
end then from Craig, too, to whom I
had sent a faithful account of how I
had brought Mrs. Mavor to her ship
and of how I had watched her sail
away with none too brave a face as
ahe held up her hand that bore the
miners’ ring and smiled with, that deep
light in her eyes. Ah, those eyes have
driven me to despair and made me
fear that I am no great painter after
all, in spite of what my friends tell
me who come in to smoke my good
cigars and praise my brush! I can get
the brow and hair and mouth and
pose, but the eyes—the eyes elude me.
And the faces of Mrs. Mavor on my
iwall, that the men praise and rave
lover, are not such as I could show to
any of the men from the mountains.
Graeme’s letters tell me chiefly about
Craig and his doings and about old
man Nelson, while from Craig I hear
about Graeme and how he and Nelson
are standing at his back and doing
What they can to fill the gap that nev
er can be filled. The three are much
itogethei’, I can see, and I am glad for
them all, but chiefly for Craig, whose
face, grief stricken, but . resolute, and
'often gentle as a woman’s, will not
{leave me or let me rest ip peace.
M .The note of thanks he sent me was
entirely characteristic. There were no
fcaroios. much oinine.or self nity.
A was simple and manly, not ignoring
the pairi, but making'much of .the joy.
And then they had their work to do.
That note, so clear, so manly, so nobly
sensible, stiffens my back yet at times.
In the spring came the startling news
that Black Rock would soon be no
more. The mines were to close down
on April L The company, having al
lured the confiding public with entic
ing . descriptions of marvelous drifts,
veins, assayB and prospects and having
expended vasi sums of the public’s
money in developing the mines till the
assurance of their reliability was ab
solutely final, calmly Bhut down and
vanished. With their vanishing van
ishes Black Rock, not without loss and
much deep cursing on the part of the
men brought Borne hundreds of miles
to aid the company in its extraordina
ry and wholly inexplicable game.
Personally it grieved me to think
that my plan of returning to Black
Rock could never be carried out. It
was a great compensation, however,
that the three men most representative
to me of that life were soon to visit
me actually in my own home and den.
Graeme’B letter said that in one month
they might be expected to appear. At
least he and Nelson were soon to come,
and Craig would soon follow.
On receiving the great news I at once
looked up young Nelson and his sister,
and we proceeded to celebrate the joy
ful prospect with a specially good din
ner. I found the greatest delight in
picturing the joy and pride of the old
man in his children, whom he had not
seen for fifteen or sixteen years. The
mother had died some five years be
fore. Then the farm was sold, and the
brother and sister came into the city,
and any father might be proud of them.
The son was a well made young fellow,
handsome enough, thoughtful and solid
looking. The girl reminded me of her
father. The same resolution was seen
in mouth and jaw, and the same pas
sion slumbered in the dark gray eyes.
She was not beautiful, but she carried
herself well, and one would always,
look at her twice. It would be worth
something to see the meeting between
father and daughter.
But fate, the greatest artist of us all,
takes little count of the careful draw
ing and the bright coloring of our fan
cy’s pictures, but with rude hand de
ranges all and with one swift sweep
paints out the bright and paints in the
dark, and this trick he served me when
one June night, after long and anxious
waiting for some word from the west,
my door suddenly opened and Graeme
walked in upon me like a specter, gray
and voiceless. My shout of welcome
was choked back by the look in his
face, and I could only gaze at him and
wait for his word. He gripped my
hand, tried to speak, but failed to make
words come.
“Sit down, old man,” I said, pushing
him into my chair, “and take your
time."
He obeyed, looking up at me with
burning, sleepless eyes. My heart was
sore for his misery, and I said: “Don't
mind, old chap. It can’t be so awfully
bad. You’re here safe and sound at
any rate.” And so I went on to give
him time, but be shuddered and looked
round and groaned.
“Now, look here, Graeme, let’s have
it. When did you land here? Where
is Nelson? Why didn’t you bring him
up?”
“He is at the station in his coffin,”
he answered slowly.'
“In his coffin?” I echoed, my beauti
ful pictures all vanishing. “How was
it?”
“Through my cursed folly,” he groan
ed bitterly.
“What happened?” I asked.
But, ignoring my question, he said:
“I must see his children. I have not
slept for-four nights. I hardly know
what I am doing, but I can’t rest till
I see his children. I promised him.
Get. them for me.”
“Tomorrow will do. Go to sleep now,
and we shall arrange everything to
morrow,” I urged.
“No,” he said fiercely; “tonight, now 1”
In half an hour they were listening,
pale and grief stricken, to tbe story of
their father’s death. *
Poor Graeme Was relentless in his
self condemnation as he told how,
through his “cursed folly,” old Nelson
was killed. The three—Craig, Graeme
and Nelson—had come as far as Victo
ria together. There they left Craig
and came on to San Francisco. In an
evil hour Graeme met a companion of
other and evil days, and it was not
long till the old fever came upon him.
’In vain Nelson warned and pleaded.
The reaction from the monotony and
poverty of camp life to the excitement
•and luxury of the San Francisco gam
ing palaces swung Graeme quite off
bis feet, arid all that Nelson could do
was to follow from place to place and
keep watch. v
“And there he would sit,” said
Graeme in a hard, bitter voice, “wait
ing and watching often till the gray
morning light, while my madness held
me fast to the table. One night”—
v “ ' “~“**»Y**. J, «**'*
went on in the riame hard ''^oifb? i “one
night. my partner and I' were ; playing
two men who had done us up before.
I knew they were cheating, but could
not detect them. Game after game
*h»v won till I was furious at mv
stupidity In riot being" a me to* eaten
them. Happening to glance at Nelson
in the corner, I caught a meaning
look, and, looking again, he threw me
a signal. I knew at once what the
fraud was and next game charged the
fellow with it. He gave me the lie.
I struck his mouth, but before I could
draw my gun his partner had me by
the arms. What followed I hardly
know. While I was struggling to get
free I saw him reach for his weapon,
but as he drew it Nelson sprang across
the table and bore him down. When
the row was over, three men lay on
the floor. One was Nelson. He took
the shot meant for me.”
Again the story paused.
“And the man that shot him?”
I started at the Intense fierceness in
the voice and, looking upon the girl,
saw her eyes blazing with a terrible
light.
“He is dead,” answered Graeme in
differently.
“You killed him?” she asked eagerly.
Graeme looked at her curiously and
answered slowly:
“I did not mean to. He came at me.
I struck him harder than I knew. He
never moved.”
She drew a sigh of satisfaction and
waited.
“I got him to a private ward, had
the best doctor in the city and sent for
Craig to Victoria. For three days we
thought he would live—he was keen to
get home—but by the time Craig came
we had given up hope. Oh, but I was
thankful to see Craig come in, and the
joy in the old man’s eyes was beautiful
to see! There was no pain at last and
no fear. He would not allow me to re
proach myself, saying over and over,
’You would have done the same for
me,’ as I would, fast enough, ‘and it is
better me than you. I am old and done.
You will • do much good yet for the
boys.’ And he kept looking at mo till
I could only promise to do my best.
“But I am glad I told him how much
good he had done me during the last
year, for he seemed to think that too
good to be true, and when Craig told
him how he had helped the boys in
the camp and how Sandy and Baptiste
and the Campbells would always be
better men for his life among them
the old man’s face actually shone as if
light were coming through, and with
surprise and joy he kept on saying:
‘Do you think so? Do you think so?
Perhaps eo, perhaps so.’ At the last he
talked of Christmas night at the camp.
You were there, you remember. Craig
had been holding a service, and some
thing happened, I don’t know what,
but they both knew.”
“I know,” I said, and I saw again the
picture of the old man under the pine,
upon his knees in the snow, with his
face turned up to the stars.
“Whatever it was, it was in his mind
at the very last, and I can never forget
his face as he turned it to Craig. ' One
hears of such things. I had often, but
had never put much faith in them. But
Joy, rapture, triumph—these are what
were in his face as he said, his breath
coming short:
“‘You said—he wouldn’t—fail me—you
were right—not once—not once—he stuck
to me—I’m glad he told me—thank
God—for you—you showed—me—I’ll
see him—and—tell him’— And Craig,
kneeling beside him so steady—I was.
behavlrig like a fool—smiled down
through his streaming tears into the
dim eyes so brightly till they" could see
no. more. * Thank liim’ fpr. that! He help
ed the old man through, and he helped
me, too, that night, thank GOdj” 1
And Graeme’s voice, hard till now,
broke in a sob.
He had forgotten us and was back
beside his passing friend, and all his
'self control could not keep back the
flowing tears.
“It was his life for mine,” he said
huskily.
The brother and sister were quietly
weeping, but spoke no word, though I
knew Graeme was waiting for them.
I took up the word nnd told of what
I had known of Nelson nnd his influ
ence upon the men of Black Rock.
They listened eagerly enough, but still
without speaking. There seemed noth
ing to say till I suggested to Graeme
that he must get some rest Then the
girl turned to him and, impulsively put
ting out her hand, said:
“Oh, it is all so sad, but how can we
ever thank you?” j
“Thank me?” gasped Graeme. “Can
you forgive me? I brought him to his
death.”
“No, no! You must not say so!” she
answered hurriedly. “You would have
done the same for him.”
“God knows I would,” said Graeme
earnestly, “and God bless you for your
words!”
And I was thankful to see the tears
Btart in his dry, burning eyes. :
We carried him to the old home in
Ihe country, that, he might lie by the
Chamberlain’s Colio, Cholera and
Diarrhoea Remedy
Is everywhere recognized as the
one remedy that can always be de-
for summer diari’hoea in children
arid is undoubtedly- the means of
saving the lives of a great many
children each year. For sale by
all druggists.
Side of the wlfe lie had loved ana
wronged. A few friends met us at the
wayside station and followed in sad
procession along the country road that
wound past farms and through woods
and at last up to the ascent where the
quaint old wooden church, black with
the rains and snows of many years,
stood among its silent graves. The lit
tle graveyard sloped gently toward the
setting sun, and from it one could see,
far ori every side, the fields of grain
and meadowland that wandered off
over softly undulating hills to meet the
nmpie woous at our uonaun, uam,
green and cool. Here and there white
farmhouses, with great barns standing
near, looked out from clustering or
chards.
Up the grass grown walk and
through the crowding mounds, over
which waves uncut the long, tangling
grass, we bear our friend and let him
gently down into the kindly bosom of
Mother Earth, dark, moist* and warm.
The sound of a distant cowbell mingles
with the voice of the-last prayer; the
clods drop heavily with heart startling
echo; the mound is heaped and shaped
b’y kindly friends, sharing with one
another the task; the long, rough sods
are laid over and patted Into place; the
old minister takes farewell in a few
words of gentle sympathy; the brother
and sister, with lingering looks at the
two graves side by side, the old and
the new, step into the. farmer's car
riage and drive away; the sexton locks
the gate and goes home, and we are
left outside alone.
Then we went back and stood by
Nelson’s grave.
After a long silence Graeme spoke.
“Connor, he did not grudge his life to
me, and I think,” and here the words
came slowly, “I understand now what
that means, ‘Who loved me and gave
himself for me.’ ”
Then, taking off his hat, he said rev
erently:
“By God’s help, Nelson’s life Bhall
not end, but shall go on. Yes, old
man,” looking down upon the grave,
“I’m with you,” and, lifting up his face
to the calm sky, “God help me to be
true!”
Then ho turned and walked briskly
away, as one might who had pressing
business or as soldiers march from a
comrade's grave to a merry, tune, not
that they have forgotten, but they
have still to fight.
And this was the way old man Nel
son came home.
iO BiS CONTINUED.
# The popular view of the rela
tion of the blood to human char
acter and conduct is marked in
many a familiar expression. We
speak of there being ‘ bad blood”
between people,at enmity, of “blue
blood” as indicating ancestry, of
“black blood” as describing a
treacherous nature, and in many
another phrase mark our belief
that in the mental, moral and
physical man, “the blood is the
life.” The one basis of a health
ful, happy and useful life is pure
blood. With the blood pure, dis
ease has no permanent lodging-
place in the system. For. this
reason the use of Dr. Pierce’s
Golden Medical Discovery rids the
body of diseases which have their
origin in impurity of the blood.
It absolutely purifies the blood,
carrying off the waste and poison
ous matter, increasing the action
of the blood making glands, and
building up the body by supply
ing the blood in quantity and
quality such as is essential to a
condition of . health. It cures
ninety-eight people out of every
hundred who give it a fair trial,
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