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Show CHAPTER Xll-Continued 15 na went into his sleeping chara- t down a rifle from Its i pair of antler He threw ti e chamber but It was empty, f jSed open a dresser drawer yed through It in a fruitless Zl for cartridges, cursing be f e found none. His breath fo- as he threw the rifle " tbe bed and rumpled his hair Elliott out!" "Show as bpDi-"Get a rail!" These and.oth- terrifving cries stood out above L constant mutter of the mob. Brandon rushed back to the front office and waved his arms for silence si-lence as he stood in the shattered tUss of his window, but the sight of him only provoked hoots and leers which were forerunners of a great billow of savage, snarling r3e The men were having trouble wits the sign post. He heard the stair door tried and a voice called : 'Hustle with that post 1" 31P J 111 ! He Could Not Satisfy Them. Coming! They were coming In to get him ! He could not satisfy them ! He M not know where Elliott was. list night Delaney had promised to. try again but he had not come t report, though Brandon had walt-d walt-d late. And now the crowd was Wing for Elliott; lacking Elliott, y would take him. He covered his face with his tads, tried to stop his ears. In menacing cries he heard the n ot his reign. For years he N.ruled hy the force of hia will now that force was not enough. ' J hit, Ben Elliott had caught fancy of the country and now, that group of stout men as a f"8 point, the entire town was Wins up a demand for the misstate, miss-tate, t. They wanted Ben El- Ul would have Ben El- Jo home!" he screamed and - i bl .T' 8tandiDS clos to 'tola, window. "Clear out, you ! 'alr warning, vm giving!" mil Jit0 Came luSSing that . er ! the Street whi!e Tim 1 rte;rvard them with HootnT.heads' now! Give 1 mZ : boych- We'll Sfe1" r -e-11 take ' f''J nntn ' D destroylD' of ;: falls l" Dtli everything else I lShupreT?llefl moment He y ,eCandlrUSBenormust ! ".nS-mr We WD,t there, a chance to ttanngj..0 KraDdon croaked. "I'm 'Jr went up from . or3s. nd burst into shrill ,- Coruing? r ' mho r tlle devil, he f 'j l!1" ransacking draw- P'ng their contents on ' WrtrldL I tmntlc "earch for , Be sou-hr , 1 Should be there N at ? th'hs hands shoob d ul Prolf have fnied to !C7neoperate. even ; !?ivoice' d i.V "e out of a Strang s hi .on th,ckiy ana F C lo. Am d attacked the S! '"V. AffimunitIon must be fttowmlI1!0d' T' tr.BpnB 0W- eompietey out 0) hand at this delay. Two or three aided Tim In his plea for at least temporary moderation but others rebelled re-belled and fought to get the post which would batter down the stair door. And then came a hush, a quick, spreading hush which swept the crowd like a shadow. And then rose a quick popping of excited voices. "Elliott!" "Here he Is!" "Look!" "He's hurt 1" Bundled to the ears In a great overcoat, cap drawn low, supported on the one side by John Martin and on the other side by Able Armltage, he came slowly, painfully out of the side street He scarcely seemed to be aware of that throng; did not look either to the right or the left. All his energy was bent on moving forward. He gained the middle of the street In an Impressive hush. Then he murmured a word to Able and they halted. He looked about at his men and smiled a trifle weakly, but In his look was a quality which clearly Indicated that love which strong men have for their kind. "Its all right, boys," he said, and only those In the first ranks could hear, his voice was that light. "They didn't get me . . . badly. I appreciate this . . . but want you to . . . get back to . . . camp." He panted for breath and lifted his face to the broken windows above. Far back In that room he caught a glimpse of a face watching watch-ing him cocked as though striving to hear. "It's my fight," he went on. "Not yours. ... I don't want any . . . of you hurt Go back. . . . Will you go . . . back?" The crowd stirred. "You bet we will, Ben !" a man called. "Now that you're located; If you ask it, we will !" Tim Jeffers worked his way to Ben's side and put a hand on his shoulder, listening to what Able told him. "Go home, boys !" Tim Jeffers called. "They knifed Ben last night but he's well took care of. You teamsters, get out your horses; we've found what we come for. To camp, every last Hoot Owl hand !" Men relaxed. The post that was to have shattered In Brandon's door was dropped. . The mob was satisfied. Slowly Ben Elliott made his way back to Dawn's home. As Tim Jeffers took bis place beside the sick man, Able Armitage drew into the post office entry to watch the mob disperse. Emory Sweet was standing there. "The king Is dead !" Able muttered mut-tered solemnly, staring at those broken windows. "Long live the king !" said Emory. Pause. "Dead men tell no tales." "No, but sometimes a corpse will kick back!" CHAPTER XIII FURIOUSLY, Nicholas Brandon saw as the days passed the wreckage wreck-age of his power pile up on a floor of public resentment, of loosened expressions ex-pressions of distrust and contempt and hatred which had grown and festered unobserved for years. As he walked along the street he saw faces leering at him from windows, win-dows, and men he passed averted their glances In a gleeful sort of embarrassment, or looked at him with surly, defiant glares. In yard and mill he was conscious con-scious that his employees were thinking only of his fall. He discharged dis-charged one man for loafing and the fellow only laughed at him. . . . Laughed ! "There's plenty of room at Hoot Owl for good hands," he said and laughed again. That' mob had not wrecked the town as they had threatened but the ruin they left was of far more consequence. Their coming had stripped Brandon of everything but his material possessions and now these only mocked him in survival. Back in the office he paced the place like a caged animal. Mall arrived. He took the packet of letters and drank deeply from his bottle again. He thumbed the letters absently, until the script on one caught his eye. The envelope contained a single sheet of note paper and he unfolded It with trembling fingers. On the sheet was written: "I never want to see you again. I know now what the whole country has known and been afraid to admit ad-mit for years. I have thought you were my friend but now I know yon are my worst enemy, as you are the sworn enemy of those I love most "DAWN." Tie stood for n time staring nt the nrV UlCn read 11 8'n and gained his whisk, bottle. Such a note, now, was to have been expected expect-ed by an ordered mind, of course, but his fevered brain had not foreseen fore-seen any necessity for abandoning this, the most precious of his hopes. A meticulous office man was Nicholas Nich-olas Brandon, and though he had suffered the severest blow of his experience ex-perience just now he mechanically went about his habitual procedure He had received and read a letter It required no reply. The next step In orderly procedure was to file it. In the great safe to which only he had combination and keys reposed two files side by side. He took both out and placed them on the desk. He opened one and a cruel smile twitched his lips. It contained letters let-ters on paper of varying size, color and quality. He riffled through these, stopping now and again to read a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph. I'leas, these were; a writing begging beg-ging for help ... and he smiled again. In the other file were more letters, let-ters, some yellowed by age and these older ones had been written In the unformed script of a child. . . . "Dear Uncle Nick," they all began. Always that though the handwriting grew formed and mature ma-ture until it was Identical with that on the single sheet he had just read. These were Dawn McManus' letters to him, saved since her childhood. He ran through them almost idly, his senses dulled by whisky and the calamity which had befallen him. A narrow slip of tablet paper fell out. He looked at the penciled note on one side. "Meet us at Antler Lodge this afternoon. af-ternoon. Dawn." Happier memories, that brought; of the time Dawn had brought girls home with her from school for Thanksgiving and had taken them to the hunting camp for a week-end. Brandon had gone with the party and It was there that he had first remarked Dawn's emerging womanhood, woman-hood, that the desire for her had keen kindled in his blood ; there in the camp where her father, as the whole country knew, had been with Sam Faxson on the night when Fax-son Fax-son fled to his death. But Dawn had never known that She had laughed and been happy at Antler lodge. "Meet us at Antler Lodge this afternoon. Dawn." He read It again. It bore no date; It was unsoiled ; it betrayed no Indication of the time that had passed since its inscription. The note had been left on his desk for him three years before. ... He leaned forward sharply and his eyes narrowed. . . . After a moment mo-ment he straightened and smiled oddly. A look like relief, almost like happiness spread over his face. Fine strength of body healed Ben Elliott's wound rapidly. By midweek mid-week he was dressed and sitting before be-fore the fire with Dawn, talking of his return to Hoot Owl on the morrow. mor-row. "And all the time I've been wondering, won-dering, Dawn, why you wouldn't let me come. . . . You've been so kind, so generous, so ... so friendly. And yet, only a few days ago, you 1 Iff "1 Can't Stand It, Ben!" told me I must never come again. Why was It, Dawn? Why, when I love you so?" "Don't I" she begged In a light whisper. "Please I" "But It's beyond any power I have to keep stilL I love you, Dawn, better than life. Can you believe that when I've seen so little of you? Look at me I" fiercely. "Don't you like It, Dawn, being loved?" "Ah . . . Like it? It's wonderful wonder-ful Ben. . . . It's too wonderful 1" She averted her face. "And loved by me?" "Yes yes! It's all wonderful. It's too wonderful, Ben. Things like It just can't be!" "Why not? It's wonderful, yon say, and yet . . . Can't you ex- Pl"Yo?u can't understand, perhaps. Sometimes I can't understand myself. my-self. Always I've wanted o be loved by . by you, Ben Elliott! It's given me the only true happiness happi-ness I've ever had. "And then I had to remember what I am. Can't you see that a eirl who is known as the daughter ft a murderer can't let any man 10hhaet's?"foolish! . . . It's terribie , for you to bear. But W me help, dear girl; let me stand by your side and help !" "No, no! I can't bear It! I couldn't take a cloud to you and to your children. . . . And It's all a mistake, all a lie! My father was no killer!" Her voice rose In sharp conviction on that. "He was kind and gentle; he never would hurt an other. All these years I've known It and others know It, but Just being be-ing sure In our own minds Isn't enough. The whole world must know! Something tells me my fa ther Is alive somewhere, waiting, watching, suffering. . . . But until we can prove that or something else comes up to banish this cloud. . . No, don't kiss me again ! I can't stand It, I tell you! I can't stand it, Ben !" Sobbing, she fled from the room. He made no further moves toward to-ward love making after that but far Into the night he talked with Dawn of her father. She had not heard all of the story, he realized. She did not know, for Instance, that the tragedy which preceded McManus' disappearance took place in Antler lodge; she did not know how far her father had gone in his attempts to drown sorrow of his wife's death by drinking. But she did know that Faxson was dead, that her father fa-ther was blamed and that a dusty warrant for his arrest on a charge of homicide still reposed In the county records. Next day he declared that he felt fit to drive back to camp and for an hour argued with Dawn, trying to win her promise that he might come again, but she begged him to stay away for a time, at least CHAPTER XIV ABLE told Dawn of Ben's activity, activ-ity, watching her face narrowly narrow-ly because he understood the obstacle ob-stacle that was between these two. He saw hope come, followed by misgiving and trouble. It was on Friday that Dawn left Tincup, striking across country far from the road toward Hoot OwL She was going to see Ben Elliott and tell him that she must see him now, that her heart could have no peace without him ; that he must come to her and let her stand beside be-side him while he pried Into the past and attempted to make it give up truth. Martin was alone in the office when she entered and started, up so sharply at sight of her that the girl, in turn, was startled. "I'm sorry !" she exclaimed a bit mystified. "Did I frighten you?" "No. Not frightened. . . . My thoughts were . . . far from here." "Is Ben about?" "Haven't seen him since dinner. Don't know where he went." Tim Jeffers, just down from camp, entered then. "Where's Ben at?" he asked Martin. Mar-tin. "I don't know. Miss McManus, here, was just asking." Martin amoved to the old table Ben nsed for a desk. "Sometimes he leaves a note for me when he's going away." He bent over the table, looking at the litter lit-ter of papers on it "No, he left no word. . . . Hum. . . . What's this?" He picked up a slip of paper, read the single line Inscribed on It and looked at Dawn. "I didn't mean to pry. . . . Probably he's gone to meet you, though. This is a note for you." "A note! Why, I . . ." Frowning, Frown-ing, she took the paper and read : "Meet us at Antler Lodge this afternoon Dawn." "Why 1" she cried. "I didn't . . . But I must have!" looking from one to the other. "That's my writing." writ-ing." "Oh !" She let the paper flutter to the floor. "I wrote that! I wrote that years ago!" she cried, struggling to speak distinctly. "I wrote that note for Mr. Brandon. . . . Years ago. . . How did it get here? Who is calling Ben to the lodge?" "Don't you see?" Martin cried and his voice was thick. "Dawn wrote it, all right. But he's sent it to Ben. . . . It's a decoy i Tim, the lad's on his way to the lodge alone and Brandon's planned It!" No need for more words, then ! On went Martin's Jacket. From a corner he snatched snowshoes and a pair for Tim. "We'll go," he said to Dawn. "You tell Buller " "But I'm going, too!" the girl cried sharply. "I'm going. Oh, hurry, Tim I We may be too late, now !" They crossed the railroad tracks at a run, put on their snowshoes and with Jeffers breaking trail, entered en-tered the timber. Another had "one that way today, a man whose heart burned and sang. Dawn had sent for him: Dawn wanted him! Entering the office while Martin was In the mill his eyes had encountered en-countered Dawn's note. No thought of how It came to be there presented present-ed itself. The quick conclnsion-.nt which he arrived was that Dawn and others had gone to Antler I.ousie; that was where the shot had been fired which sent Sam Fax-son Fax-son to his death. Perhaps Abie had taken Dawn there. Hastily, he took his snowshoes and departed. The distance was a good five miles, however, and part of the going go-ing was in soft footing. So it was nearly two hours after his start that he came in sight of the bunding bund-ing on the high bank of the Mad Woman. TO BE CONTINL'EP |