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Uncle
Hays:
Man Is Gregarious
A delight in solitude is an ac
quired taste—and usually compul
sory.
When love takes flight from a
window, it is usually from the din
ing room window.
The man who settles down is
more likely to “settle up.”
The Faculty of Weighing
There’s no use of being logical
with those who haven’t logic.
Between two cowards, he has
the advantage who first detects
the other.
Sometimes an ounce of hint is
worth a pound of advice.
There’s Competition
Sin loves company, too, and
finds it quite as readily as misery
does.
Two-thirds of all trouble is wor
ry. But worry is something that’s
constitutional.
Many are skeptical because of
their credulity.
The hardest thing to remember
—and the most useful—is that it’s
none of your business.
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Mountain man
tyictton Serial
• H.GWIr*—WHU Santa By HAROLD CHANNING WIRE
CHAPTER XXll—Continued
—2o—
— shook his head, but he could
reconstruct what had happened. Art
getting drunk after Irene threw him
down; brooding over it; driven at
last to take it out on somebody.
Standing here in the cabin, he could
still see the distorted face thrust
close to his.
Joe Scott came in, a big, dark
faced man. He held a lamp near
the wound, probed a little with his
pocket knife, then straightened.
“Arm bone’s broke, rib shattered
come. Good thing the lead went
clean through.”
“We'll have to get him down,”
•aid Cook.
Scott wagged his head. “No; too
much danger of that rib puncturin’
a lung. I’d say send for a doc
tor.” He bent again over the cow
boy, adding, “Ain’t goin’ to bleed
much and he’s passed out in a
drunk. Get me some rags and I’ll
fix him up for the time bein’.”
Louise went for them. Breck
strode from the door, saying to
Cook, “I’ll tell Lone Tree to send
a surgeon.”
By this time word had gotten out
to the dancers, and he came at once
among a knot of men beyond the
shanty.
“What happened, Ranger?”
“A gun went off,” Breck replied.
“Nothing serious.”
“Who’s hurt?"
He mumbled a name indistinctly
and passed on toward the telephone.
There he rang Lone Tree, order
ing the clerk to send up a doctor,
and to make certain of getting the
right man, told how badly Tillson
was shot.
When he turned from the phone,
Irene was standing at his back.
"Gordon!” she gasped. Her face
was blanched, eyes wide in a look of
comprehension, as if she realized
her part in this. “I heard what you
said. Tell me . . . tell me what
happened. Gordon, did you kill
. . .?”
He put a hand firmly on her shoul
der, turning her around. “Go back
to your family, Irene. Don’t fright
en them. I’ll come later.”
“But tell me ... ”
“For God’s sake do as I say!”
Back at the cabin he found Joe
Scott and Cook finishing the job of
binding Tillson’s wounds. Louise
was not there. Sierra slouched to
ward him as he entered. "Pardner,
show me the barbecue pit, will you?
I ain’t et since noon.”
Outside he added less casually, “I
want to talk. Come on."
Fire had burned to coals in the
pit, and only strings of beef were
left upon the bones hanging there.
Sierra took off a rack of ribs while
Breck found cups and poured cof
fee. They sat together on a log.
Breck drank his first cupful,
poured another, suddenly aware of
nerves beginning to let down.
“Seen Jud and Hep?” Sierra
asked.
“They haven’t been here all day.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I don’t. Neither does Cook.”
Sierra tore two ribs apart and
deftly secured the meat between his
teeth; that finished, he said gravely,
“What do you suppose Art was sash
ayin’ around alone for—actin’ plumb
loco that way?”
“He was loco,” Breck answered,
“over a girl, and that explains a
lot. He went out of ius head over
this girl I brought up. She made
a fool of him and he came back at
me.”
Sierra nodded. “That’s about what
I might a-knowed.”
Breck said nothing. Through the
pines he saw figures moving again
about the dance fire. Voices were
lifted to a higher pitch of excite
ment. His eyes went to the cabin
where a light showed in one window.
Presently Sierra expressed Breck’s
own thought. “Well anyway," he
drawled, “Art won’t cause us no
trouble for a long time.”
Breck nodded. But there were
still the other two.
A breeze stirred the coals into a
burst of flame. Light added distance
to the circle of vision. Breck’s gaze
moved up the slope behind him,
passing slowly through the black
tret trunks. It halted upon one spot.
He stared, half-rising, then suddenly
caught Sierra’s arm.
“Slim!”
Sierra looked. A figure was com
ing down toward them, stumbling,
one hand groping as if in blindness.
Though the face was smudged and
partly covered by long strings of
hair, Breck recognized the boy from
the Potholes.
“It’s Jack Weller," he said quiet
ly to Sierra. “Something’s wrong.
I’ve seen that look—we mustn’t
frighten him.”
The boy approached with glazed
eyes staring at the fire. His jaw
hung slack. Bloody scratches
showed through torn clothing. One
hand outstretched in front of him
held what had once been a barn
lantern. Now there was left only
the wire bail.
Breck stood up slowly when the
boy came within a few feet, but he
did not speak. The glassy eyes rest
ed upon him, moved off, strayed
back. A tight fist lifted the lantern
bail as if to cast its glow higher.
Gradually his lips parted to form
soundless words. Breck held out
his hand, saying, “Hello, Jack. How
are you?”
The boy hesitated, took a step
nearer, yet no sign of recognition
came into his face.
“Let’s get him some whiskey,”
Sierra advised.
“No,” said Breck. “Wait a min
ute.” He took the boy’s arm and
drew him down to the log, then
spoke in an even, questioning voice.
“Well, Jack, been bear hunting late
ly? Here, I’ll blow out your lan
tern.”
He unclenched the small fist and
went through the action of ex
tinguishing a light. “Cold, isn’t it?
Have some coffee? Bring us a cup
ful, Slim.”
Jack drank in gulps and gasped
one long breath when he finished.
For a moment Breck looked away.
“Pardner, show me the barbecue pit, will you.”
thinking, knowing he must estab
lish some contact in the little fel
low’s mind. It was plain he had
been through a terrible experience,
and then had been fighting through
the woods—no telling how long.
In moving, Breck’s hand touched
the Luger. He pulled it out, turning
it over in his palm as he looked at
Jack.
The boy was staring with the first
sign of sane comprehension. He
reached for the gun. “That . . .
that’s a Luger, ain’t it?” he stam
mered.
“Yes,” said Breck, “it’s a Luger
and holds a lot of shells and I’ve
been a Soldier, and now, Jack, is
your father all right?"
The small hand shook convulsive
ly. Words blurted of their own ac
cord. “Pap’s dead! They killed
him. They killed my pap! I seen
’em!’\He stopped, startled. Con
tact was made. “Ranger,” he cried,
"I’ve been cornin’ to you. Them
Tillsons killed him!”
“Yes, Jack,” Breck said quietly,
trying to soothe him by putting an
arm about his shoulders. “But may
be you can tell me later."
The boy drew back. “No! I’ve
been funnin’ to get here, ever since
I heard them coyotes a-howlin* for
pap.”
“All right then. Tell me. What
did the Tillsons do?”
“Came arguin’ about a fire.
Blamed my pap for tellin’. He talked
back and they shot him!”
“Where are they now?”
“The nesters run ’em off to Sul
phur—and they’re goin’ to burn ’em
out.” Jack paused, looking up with
puzzled face. “Is this tonight?”
“Yes, this is tonight.”
“Then they’re doin’ it! Burnin’
them Tillsons!”
Sierra sprang up. “Say!”
“Easy,” Breck warned him. “Get
Kern Peak on the phone.”
Sierra strode off. The boy in
Breck’s arms was fast falling into
a stupor of exhaustion. He lay with
eyes closed, though with the terror
of what he had been through
stamped indelibly upon his old
man’s face. As sleep came, his
voice trailed off faintly. “They left
me watchin’ pap. But them coy
otes . . . a-howlin’ ... I run . . .”
“Kern Peak line is dead,” Sierra
announced, returning from the tele
phone. “Wire’s either cut or in a
fire.”
Breck leaped up. “Take this boy
to Louise. Give me your horse and
I’ll ride to the ridge. Better tell
Cook.”
He was half an hour in climbing
the backbone above Temple Mead
ow, but when he reached the crest,
he halted for only a moment. Far
below, the whole Sulphur Flat was
afire, though actual flames were hid
den by an intermediate canyon wall.
The sky was red for miles above
the lower part of Sulphur Creek.
Breck wheeled and crashed down,
letting his swift descent pass the
word to those below.
Animals were already being sad-
BAKER COUNTY NEWS
died when he burst into camp. Si
erra Slim had brought up Kit, while
Cook packed a mule nearby. He
rode to join them, plunging across
the space that a few minutes earlier
had held a laughing, dancing throng.
“Fire’s in the Sulphur country,”
he told Dad Cook. “I guess the boy
knew what he was talking about.
Nesters have lighted the whole bot
tom.”
Cook nodded, throwing his lash
rope over the mule. Breck caught it,
made the loop, and passed one end
back under the animal’s belly. A
plan had been seething in his mind
ever since he had left the ridge;
suddenly now it became clear.
"Cook,” he asked, “is there any
way the Tillsons can climb out of
their hole to the north?”
“No; Kern Peak blocks them.”
“That means with the fire driving
them up, they’ve got to come out
somewhere to the south and east of
Sulphur Creek?”
Cook came from his side of the
mule. “All right, son, what’s on
your mind?”
“I’ve got the Tillsons’ back door
spotted,” Breck declared. “They
can’t climb to it before daylight—
too rough—and by that time Slim
and I can be there if we go ahead.”
“Then go,” Cook ordered. “I’ll
make up a crew here and meet you
at Indian Rock. Slim knows where
that is.”
Sierra had vanished in the crowd,
leaving Kit tied to a stump. Breck
exchanged horses and was swinging
into his saddle when Senator Suth
erland rushed to him.
“Here, my boy, here,” he cried,
puffing with excitement. “A fire is
it? Great stuff! Everyone going?
Never saw a mountain blaze first
hand. You wait now till I get my
horse!” He dashed on.
“Oh, Gordon!” Again Breck
turned from mounting. Irene was
running toward him. “Gordon,
you'll saddle for me? Is it a real
fire? I don’t know where my horse
is.”
He lowered his foot to the ground.
“You won’t need your horse. You’re
not going.”
“Absurd! Why am I not?”
Breck waved a gloved hand to
ward Temple’s cabin. “Because a
man is in there badly hurt. You
made a drunken maniac out of Till
son. Now how big are you? Some
one has got to keep him up till the
doctor gets here tomorrow. He’ll get
over the gunshot, but he’s the sort
that goes straight to the devil when
a woman takes his pride. Talk to
him, Irene, lie to him, anything to
explain yourself. For God’s sake
that’s one thing you can do!”
He swung to his saddle before she
could reply, and hoped some bit of
Waltzing Mouse Shown in London Zoo;
Breed Once Numerous in America, Japan
A humble, but nevertheless fasci
nating addition to the London zoo
is a “waltzing” mouse, says the
Times of London. To the last gen
eration “waltzing” mice were well
known as children’s pets, and they
are still largely bred by fanciers in
America and Japan, but they have
become scarce in this country. In
fact, when two years ago the zoo
wanted a family of them as zoolog
ical curiosities to illustrate Mende
lian inheritance they were unobtain
able.
“Waltzing” mice are a strain of
common mice possessed of a habit,
often repeated many times a day,
of spinning round and round for per
haps half a minute in a very small
circle. This so-called waltz is due
to an anatomical defect, the exact
nature of which is still doubtful.
The condition has received a great
deal of attention from biologists,
and the “waltz” has been found to
comprehension would move her to a
decent act. Art might be his ene
my, yet he had come to have some
thing of Louise Temple’s sympathet
ic understanding of him.
He found Sierra roping up a fresh
horse and gave his plan. The moun
taineer listened, said nothing, and
in a few minutes they rode together
out past the clearing, where in the
light of fresh logs more than twenty
men were getting tools for the fire
line. Among them Breck saw Lou
ise.
“Are you going?” he asked, halt
ing at her side.
“Why not? You'll need all of us.”
A swift admiration filled him. He
was proud of her. Little thorough
bred! Love welled in his heart. Then
fear. But he knew she would scorn
his thought of danger. Tom Temple
hobbled over with a shovel and ax.
“Be right with you, Ranger!”
Breck saluted and loped on to
overtake Sierra. His veins tingled.
There was something military
about this night move—like shock
troops breaking into action.
He led, knowing the route to the
spot where he had once seen Jud
and Hep vanish down Sulphur Creek.
He pushed Kit at a run. It would
be almost daylight anyway by the
time he and Slim could cover the
range from Temple’s camp to the
broken country.
They left the blazed government
trail at the spur where Breck had
come down before, climbed it, and
came at last to the brim that
dropped a thousand feet into cliffs
and falls and unmapped gorges.
Firelight flooded the lower level.
Roar of the blaze rose faintly.
Breck halted. “You see we’ve
come to sort of a blind trail, Slim. It
dips over the ridge and crosses the
head of Sulphur Canyon. That’s
where we go down. I don’t know
how far.”
Sierra kicked his foot out of one
stirrup. “I’d say we leave the cay
uses here and walk.”
Breck agreed, pulled from the
trail and tied his horse. Then to
gether they walked on. The canyon
was not far. It plunged away steep
ly, with the stream cutting a sharp
banked gorge through the rock.
Their path skirted the brink for two
hundred yards, then curved around
a brush clump. In another turn it
ended against a blank wall.
To the left was the mountain face;
on the right a sheer drop to the
stream. Breck looked down at white
water dashing through boulders.
“What do you make of it?” he
asked.
Sierra did not answer. His head
was tilted sidewise, attention cen
tered above and behind them. “Hear
that?”
Breck listened, yet heard only the
waterfall and roar of fire further
on.
“Nothing, Slim.”
“Maybe not. How about your
trail?”
“We’ve slipped up somewhere.”
“I thought so. It turns to the
right back here.”
Breck faced about dubiously. To
the right meant a straight drop into
the gorge. Sierra took a few steps
and halted. Suddenly he motioned
with his hand. Before them a nar
row rock bridge spanned the chasm
from rim to rim.
Sierra stepped back behind a boul
der and put his pistol on its flat top.
“Pardner,” he said softly, “this
looks like our place.”
Breck stood with his gaze sweep
ing up the granite barricade of Kem
Peak. No chance of escape up there.
He was satisfied. For Jud and Hep
it was this way out or none. His
hands tightened. A name flashed
through his thoughts. Jim Cotter.
Dawn came swiftly. With it a
new sound broke the rumble of the
falls. Breck met Sierra’s eyes and
his question was acknowledged with
a look. Horses were climbing along
the far rim of the gorge, having
difficulty in woods where night still
lingered. One stumbled; its shoes
clattered.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
be inherited according to Mendelian
laws as a recessive character.
If they were not selectively bred
the strain would probably soon die
out, for they are more delicate than
ordinary fancy mice, and the fe
males make such poor mothers that
they seldom succeed in rearing their
families. It is curious that the best
dancers are always the piebald
members of a brood.
“Waltzing” mice were first known
in modern times in Japan, but an
ancient reference to them, which
may well be the earliest, is from
China. It is a quotation from the
annals of the Han dynasty, about 80
B. C.: “A yellow mouse was found
dancing with its tail in its mouth in
the gateway of the palace of the
kingdom of Yen. The animal danced
incessantly. The king asked the
queen to feed it' with wine and
meat, but this did not interfere with
the performance. It died during the
night.”
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