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Show THE GROSS-CUT I "ST' I . Copyright by tlttl, Brewa 4 Ce. f? Tonight you and I will go to Indian-npolls Indian-npolls and probate the will It's simple enough ; I've had It In my safe for ten years. After that, you become the owner of the Blue Poppy mine, to do with as you choose." "But" "Don't ask my advice, Boy. I haven't any. Your father told me what to do If you decided to try your luck and silver's at $1.29. It means a lot of money for anybody who can produce pay ore unless what he said about the mine pinching out was true." , Again the thrill of a new thing went through Robert Falrchlld's veins, something he never had felt until twetve hours before; again the urge for strange places, new scenes, the fire of the hunt after, the hidden wealth of silver-seamed hills. Robert Falrchlld's life had been a plodding thing of books and accounts, of high desks which as yet had failed to stoop his shoulders, of stuffy offices which had been thwarted so far In their grip at his lung power; the long walk in the morning end the tired trudge homeward at night. But the recoil MYSTERY, MINING, LOVE AND ROMANCE lie ttooped and Anita, laughing at her posture, clambered upon his back, her arms about, his neck. FairchUd found himself wishing wish-ing that he could carry her forever, and that the road to the sheriffs' office were twenty miles away instead of two. But her voice cut in on his wishes. "I can walk now. We can get along so much faster!" came her plea. "I'll hold on to you and you can help me along." FairchUd released her and she seized his arm. Once, as they floundered through a knee-high mass, FairchUd's arm went quickly about her waist and he lifted her against him as he literally carried her through. When they reached the other side, the arm still held its place and she did not resist. Some way, after that, the stretch of road faded swiftly. Almost before he realized it, they were at the outskirts of the city. Grudgingly he gave up his hold upon her, as they hurried for the sidewalks and for the sheriff's office. There FairchUd did not attempt to talk he left it all to Anita, and Bardwell, the sheriff, listened. Did you ever carry a pretty girl pick-a-back? Well, it's some experience. Especially when the girl i as pretty and fascinating and altogether adorable a U Anita, and especially when the man is as much interested in the girl as is FairchUd. And especially when the carrying is done in a bliziard and the man is just bound to do all he can to help the girl along. As for the. tale Anita and Fairchild tell the sheriff well, it's a fit climax to a story of mystery, mining, lore and romance In the Colorado Rockies a land where mystery, mining, love and romance are as much a part of things as the scenery. When Young Robert Fairchild's father a man of mystery, living in fear goes where earthly officers of the law bother no one, the hero "finds himself the owner of a mysterious silver mine, the Blue Poppy. With the inheritance go a feud and the opposition of a choice collection collec-tion of scoundrels. Nevertheless, the hero decides to claim the mine and work it. On the way from Denver he meets the heroine Anita Richmond. She is driving in a desperate hurry, just about two turns of the road ahead of the sheriff. Fairchild helps her change a tire, gets a tip of ten dollars and lies like, a whitehead about her to the sheriff. Quite an interesting way of beginning an acquaintance with ' the prettiest girl in town, who turns out to be engaged so most people think to the son of the chief villian "Squint)' Rodaine. The author? Why, Courtney Ryley Cooper the writer of short stories and-movie scenarios. He ran away as a boy from Kansas City to become circus clown. Later he wrote circus advertising no wonder he has a vivid imagination! Anyway, you've undoubtedly read some of his circus stories in the magazines and know how fas cinatingly he can write. . ( Accept his counsels, laugh at his little eccentricities If you will, but follow his Judgment Implicitly. Above all, ask him no questions that he does not care to answer there are things that he may not deem wise to tell. "There Is little more to say. Beamish Beam-ish will attend to everything for you If you care to go. Sell everything that Is here; the house, the furniture, the belongings. It Is my wish, and you will need the capital If you go. And If circumstances should arise to bring before you the story of that which has caused roe so much darkness,' dark-ness,' I have nothing to say in self-extenuation. self-extenuation. I made one mistake that of fear and in committing one error, I shouldered every blame. It makes little difference now. I am dead and free. "My love to you, my son. I hope that wealth and happiness await you. Blood of my blood flows In your veins and strange though It may sound to you It Is the blood of an adventurer. They say, once In the blood, It never dies. My wish Is that you succeed where I failed and God be with you I ! ' "TOUIt FATHER." For a long moment Robert Fairchild stood staring at the letter, his heart pounding with excitement, his hands grasping the foolscap paper as though with a desire to tear through the shield which the written words had formed about a mysterious past and disclose that which was so effectively hidden. So much had the letter told and yet so little I Dark had been the hints of some mysterious, Intangible thing, great enough In Its horror and Its far-reaching consequences to cause death for one who had known of It and a living panic for him who had perpetrated It. fn that super-calmness which accompanies great agitation, agita-tion, FairchUd folded the paper, placed it In its envelope, then slipped it Into an Inside pocket. A few steps and he was before the safe once more and reaching for the second envelope. Heavy and bulky was this, filled with tax receipts, with plats and blueprints blue-prints and the reports of surveyors. Here was an assay slip, bearing figures and notations which Robert Fairchild could not understand, then a legal document, doc-ument, sealed and stamped, and bearing bear-ing the words: County of Clear Crcek.l " State of Colorado. J DEED PATENT. KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS: That on this day of our Lord, February 22, 1S92, Thornton W. Fairchild, having presented the necessary neces-sary affidavits and statements of as- j sessments accomplished In accordance with On It trailed In endless legal phraseology, phrase-ology, telling In muddled, attorney-like language, the fact that the law had been fulfilled In Its requirements, and that the claim for which Thornton Fairchild had worked was rightfully his, forever. Fairchild reached for the age-yellowed envelope to return the papers to their resting place. But he checked bis motion Involuntarily ion a matter-of-fact brain for Robert ! Fairchild, one sentence in that letter had found an echo, had started a pulsating pul-sating something within him that he never before had known : It is the blood of an adventurer." And It Beemed that Robert Fair-child Fair-child needed no more than the knowledge knowl-edge to feel the tingle of it ; the old house suddenly became stuffy and prisonlike as he wandered through It Again and again pounded through his head the fact that only a night of travel Intervened between Indianapolis Indianapo-lis and St. Louis; within twelve hours he could be In the office of Henry Beamish. And then A hurried resolution. A hasty packing pack-ing of a traveling bag and the cashing of a check at the cigar store down on the corner. A wakeful night while the train clattered along upon Its Journey. At last ; "I'm Robert Fairchild," he said, as he faced a white-haired, Cupld-faced man In the rather dingy offices In the Princess building. A slow smile spread over the pudgy features of the genial-appearing attorney, and he waved a fat hand toward the office's extra chair. "Sit down, Son," came casually. "Needn't have announced yourself. I'd have known you just like your father, fa-ther, Boy. How Is he?" Then his face suddenly sobered. "I'm afraid your presence Is the answer. Am I right?" Fairchild nodded gravely. ' The old attorney stared out of the window to the grimy roof and signboards of the next building. "Perhaps It's better so," he said at last "Did he get any cheerier before be-fore he went?" "No. Afraid of every step on the veranda, of every knock at the door." Again the attorney stared out of the window. "And you? Are you afraid?" "Of what?" The lawyer sis lied. "I don't know. Only" and he leaned forward "It's Just as though I were living my younger days over again this morning. It doesn't seem any time at all since your father was sitting Just about where you are now, and gad, Boy, how much you look like he looked that morning 1 The same gray-blue eyes, the same dark hair, the same strong shoulders, and good, manly chin, the same build and look of determination about him. The call of adventure was In his blood, and he sat there all enthusiastic, telling me what he Intended doing and asking ask-ing my advice although he wouldn't have followed It If I had given It. Back home was a baby and the woman he loved, and out West was sudden wealth, waiting for the right man to come along and find It. Gad !" White-haired White-haired old Beamish chuckled with the memory of It. "Then four years later," the tone changed suddenly, "he came back." "What then?" Fairchild was on the edge of his chair. But Beamish only spread his hands. "Truthfully, Boy, I don't know. I have guessed but I won't tell you what All I know Is that your father found what he was looking for and was on the point of achieving his every ev-ery dream, when something happened. Then three men simply disappeared from the mining camp, announcing that they had failed and were going t ) hunt new diggings. That was all. One of them was your futher " "But you said that he'd found" "Silver, running twenty ounces to the ton on an eight-Inch vein which gave evidences of being only the beginning be-ginning of a bonanza! I know, because be-cause he had written me that, a month before." "And he abandoned It?" "He'd forgotten what he had written writ-ten when I saw him' again. ' I didn't question him. He went home then, after giving me enough money to pay tlie ts?:es en ! inns for the next twenty years, simply as his attorney and without divulging his whereabouts. where-abouts. I did It Eight years or so later I saw him In Indianapolis. lie gave me more money enough br eleven or twelve years " "And that was ten years ago?" Robert Rob-ert Falrchlld's eyes were reminiscent. "I remember I was only a kid.' He wld off everything he had, except the house." Henry Beamish walked to his safe und fumbled there n moment, -to return re-turn at lust with a few slips of paper. "Here's the answer," he said quietly, qui-etly, "the taxes are paid until l!i'.'2." Robert Fairchild studied the receipts re-ceipts carefully futllely. They told him nothing. The .lawyer stood looking look-ing down upon him; nt last he laid a band on Lis shoulder. "Boy," rame quickly, "I know just about what you're thinking. I've spent a few hours at the same kind of a Job myself, and I've called old Henry Beamish more kind of n fool than you can think of for not coming right out flat footed and making Thornton tell me the whole story. But someway when I'd look into those eyes with the lire all dead and ashen within Ihem, and see the lines of an old man In his young face, 1 Just couldn't do it!" "So you 'n tell me nothing?" "I'm afraid that's true in one way. In -another I'm a fund of information. ' CHAPTER I. ' It was over. The rambling house, with Its rickety, old-fashioned furnl-ture furnl-ture and Its memories was now deserted, de-serted, except for Robert FairchUd, and he was deserted within it, wandering wan-dering from room to room staring at familiar objects with the unfamiliar gaze of one whose vision suddenly has been warped by the visitation of death and the sense of loneliness that It brings. Loneliness, rather than grief, for It had been Robert Falrchlld's promise that he would not suffer In heart for one who bad longed to go Into a peace for which he had waited, seemingly In vain. Year after year, Thornton Fair-child Fair-child had sat In the big armchair by the windows, watching the days grow eld and fade into night, studying sunset sun-set after sunset, voicing the vain hope that the gloaming might bring the twilight twi-light of his own existence a silent, man except for this, rarely speaking of the past, never giving to the son who worked for hlra, cared for him, worshiped wor-shiped him, the slightest Inkling of what might have happened In the dim days of the long ago to transform him Into a beaten thing, longing for the final surcease. And when the end came, It found him In readiness, waiting wait-ing In the big armchair by the windows. win-dows. Even now, a book lay on the frayed carpeting of the old room, where it had fallen from relaxing fingers. fin-gers. Robert Fairchild picked It up, and with a sigh restored It to the grim, fumed oak case. His days of petty sacrifices that his father might while away the weary hours with reading were over. What had been the past? Why the silence? Why the patient, yet Impatient Impa-tient wait for death? The son dldiot know. In all his memories was only cue fulct plcijre, pa'nfed years he-fore he-fore In babyhood: the return of his father from some place, he knew not where, a long conference with his mother behind closed doors, while be, In childlike curiosity, waitedwlthout, seeking In vain to catch some explanation. expla-nation. Then a sad-faced woman who cried at nlglit when the house was still, who faded and who died. That was all. The picture carried no explanation. ex-planation. And now Robert Fairchild stood on the threshold of something he almost feared to learn. Once, on a black, stormy night, they bad sat together, father and son before the fire, silent for hours. Then the hand of the white-haired man had reached outward out-ward and rested for a moment on the young man's knee. "I wrul something to yon, Boy, a day or so ago," be bad said. "That little illness I had prompted me to do It. I I thought It was only fair to you. After I'm gone, look In (lie cafe. You'll find the combination on a piece of paper bidden in a hole cut In that old Kuropean history In the bookfase. I have your promise, I fcnnu that you'll not do It until after I'm gone." Now Thornton Fairchild was gone, f.ut a message had remained behind; ene which 1 lie patient lips evidently fcod feareo to utter during life. The heart of the son began to pound, slow tnd hai'.l a, with the memory of that conversation, he turned toward the bookcase and unlatched the paneled door. A moment more and the hollowed hol-lowed history had given up Its trust, a bit of paper scratched with numbers. Robert Fairchild turned toward the stairs and the small room on the second sec-ond floor which had served as his father's fa-ther's bedroom. There he hesitated before the little Iron safe In the corner, summoning the courage to unlock the doors of a dead man's past The safe had not been opened In years; that was evident from the creaking of the plungers as they fell, the gummy resistance of the knob as Fairchild turned It In accordance with the directions on the paper. Finally, a great wrench, and the bolt was drawn grudgingly back ; a strong pull, and the safe opened. Fairchild crouched for a moment, staring, before he reached for the thinner of two envelopes which lay before him. A moment later he straightened and turned toward the light . A crinkling of paper, a quick-drawn quick-drawn sigh between clenched teeth; It was a letter; his strange, quiet, hunted appearlng father, was talking to him through the medium of Ink and pnper, after death. He read: "My Son: "Before I begin this letter to you I must ask that you take no action whatever until you have seen my attorney at-torney he will be yours from now on. I have never mentioned hlra to you before; it was not necessary and would only have brought you curiosity which I could not have satisfied. But now, I am afraid, the doors must be unlocked. I am gone. You are young, you have been a faithful son and you are deserving of every good fortune that may possibly come to you. I am praying that the years have made a difference, and that Fortune may smile upon you as she frowned on me. Certainly, she can Injure me no longer. My race is run ; I am beyond earthly fortunes. "Therefore, when you have finished with this, take the deeds Inclosed In the larger envelope and go to St. Louis. There, look up Henry F. Beamish, Beam-ish, Httorne,v-at-law, in the ' Trlncess building. He will explain them to you. "Beyond Una, I fear, there is little that can aid you. I cannot find the strength, now that I fare It, to tell you what you may find If you follow the lure that the other envelope holds forth to yon. "There is always the hope that Fortune For-tune may be kind to me at last, and smile upon my memory by never letting let-ting you know why I have been the sort of man you have known, nnd not the Jovial, genial companion that n father should be. But there are certain cer-tain tilings, my. son, which defeat a limn. Therefore Is it not better that it remain behind a cloud until such time as Fortune may reveal It and hope .that such a time will never come? I think so not for myself, for when you read this, I shall he gone; hut for you. that you may not be handicapped han-dicapped by the knowledge of the tiling which whitened my luiir and aged me. long before my lime. "If he lives, arid I am sure lie does, there 1h one who will hurry to your aid as soon us lie knows you need him. "They Call Him 'Squint' Rodaine." had not exerted Itself against an office-cramped office-cramped brain, a dusty ledger-filled life that suddenly felt Itself crying out for the free, open country, without hardly knowing what the term meant Old Beamish caught the light In the eyes, the quick contraction of the hands, and smiled. "You don't need to tell me, Son," he said slowly. "I can see the symptoms. symp-toms. You've got the fever you're going back to work that mine. "Ohadl Is thirty-eight miles from Denver. That's your goal. Out there, they'll tell you how the mine caved In, and how Thornton Fairchild, who had worked It, together with his two men, Harry Harklns, a Cornlshman, and 'Sissle' Larsen, Swede, left town late one night for Cripple Creek and that they never came back. That's the story they'll tell you. Agree with It Tell them that Harklns, as far as you know, went back to Cornwall, and that you have heard vaguely that Larsen Lar-sen later followed the mining game farther out west." "Is It the truth?" . "How do I know? It's good enough people shouldn't ask questions. Tell nothing more than that and be careful care-ful of your friends. There la one man to watch If he Is still alive. They call him 'Squint' Rodaine, and he may or may not still be there. I don't know I'm only sure of the fact that your father hated him,' fought him and feared him. The mine tunnel tun-nel is two miles up Kentucky gulch and one hundred yards to the right. A surveyor can lead you to the very spot It's been abandoned now for thirty years. What you'll find there Is more than I can guess. But, Boy," and bis hand clenched tight on Robert Falrchlld's shoulder, "whatever you do, whatever you run Into, whatever friends or enemies you find awaiting you, don't let that light die out of your eyes and don't pull In that chin! If you find a fight on your hands, whether It's man, beast or nature, sail into it! If you run Into things that cut your very heart out to learn heat 'em down and keep going! And win! There that's all the advice I know. Meet me at the 11:10 train for Indianapolis. Indian-apolis. Goodhy !" "Goodby I'll be there." Fairchild grasped the pudgy hand and left the olllce. For a moment afterward, old Henry Beamish stoci thinking and looking out over the dingy roof adjacent. adja-cent. Then, somewhat absently, he pressed the ancient electric button for his more ancient stenographer. "('ail a messenger, please," he ordered or-dered when she entered, "I want to send a cablegram." "For goodneis' sake, come i her! I'll give you five dollars. Hurry!" J (TO VK CONTiKL'bD j '. "I Made Ona Mistake That of Fear." and for a moment held the envelope before him, staring at it with wide eyes. Then, as though to free by the stronger light of the window the haunting thing which faced him. he rose nnd hurried across the room, to better light, only to find It had not been Imagination; the words) still were before him, a sentence written In faint, faded ink proclaiming the contents to be "Papers Relating to the Blue l'oppy Mine," and written across tills a word In the bolder, harsher strokes of a man under stress of emotion, emo-tion, a word which held the eyes of Robert Fairchild fixed und staring, a word which spelled books of the past Htid evil threats of the future, the single, ominous word: "ACCURSKD!" ' CHAPTER II. In spite of nil that omens could foretell, in spite of the dull, ejoomy life which had done Its best to fash- |