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Show lYoMstllhi IRide West wnxj . By W Irwin , . ill WNU irrlo ' I j n THE STORY SO FAR On their way to the new Cottonwood Cot-tonwood cold digging) In Colorado Colo-rado In the early Seventies, Uob- rt Ollion, eauierner, and his partnwr. Buck Hydn, a veteran miner, witness the hold-up of a stage coach, from which the express ex-press box la stolen hrfore the bandits are scared off. Among; the hold-up victims are Mrs. Constant Con-stant Deane, and Mrs. Barnaby, who Intends to open a restaurant In Cotton wood. Ollson meets Marcus Handy, editor, on his way to start the Cottonwood Courier. Arriving; In town, Ollson and Haden toa-ether purchase a mining- claim. A threatened Lynching ta averted by the bravery of Chris McOralh, town marshal. (Ml son becomes disgusted with (To Id dlKKlna;, what with 1th unending un-ending labor and small rewards, and so the sudden appearance of Shorty Croly, old-time partner of Buck, la not altogether disconcerting: discon-certing: to him. Gllaon takes a Job on the Courier and arranges to sell his share In the claim to Shorty. His acquaintanceship with Mrs. Deane ripens. CHAPTER V Continued "Got us robbed," said Mrs. Barnaby, addressing the miners, "held up and robbed that stage company I" Forthwith, Forth-with, addressing not me but them, Mrs. liarnaby launched forth Into her narrative nar-rative of that adventure, beginning with her mortal certainty, when she took the stage at Plested's, that something some-thing was going to happen. Meantime, Mean-time, Iseated myself In a spare plac at the other end of the table In the attitude of one who expects to be served. Mrs. Barnaby, whirling on a gesture as she described the killing of the horse, beheld mo there, broke the narrative off short, and turned her guns from the stage company to me. "Well, who asked you to sit down?" she asked. "I I wanted board," I replied, feeling feel-ing somehow de trop. Mrs. Barnaby regarded me with email, brown, deep-set eyes, and her expression seemed to brand my simple business proposal as au Insult. "ltegular, or transient?" she Inquired. In-quired. "Regular," I faltered. Mrs. Barnaby Barna-by was looking at me so sharply thut I wondered uncomfortably If she had guessed why I chose her establishment. establish-ment. i "Got a job?" "Oh, yes I" "At what?" "Reporter on the Courier." "Editor, huh? Well, I know editors. Tou pay In advance!" said Mrs. Barnaby. Bar-naby. "How much?" "Ten a week for you !" Meekly, I reached Into my pocket, humbly I produced a gold eagle, apologetically apolo-getically I gave It to Mrs. Barnaby. fche rang It on the pine table before she lifted her skirt to an Indiscreet height for those days, revealing a pair of men's cowhide top boots. Into the leg of the nearest, she dropped my coin. "And you'll get no ham with your eggs, neither," said Mrs. Barnaby, flouncing into the kitchen. "Last to be had in camp was eat by those hogs." Whereupon the nearest of the three miners turned upon the others and dropped a solemn wink. And I began to perceive that Mrs. Barr"by's bark was worse than her bite. In fact, when she returned with my smoking hot eggs and my steaming coffee, she seemed to have accepted me as a regular boarder. Her manner became almost confidential. She spoke of the difficulty in getting decent provisions pro-visions "The last bar'l of flour I bought was great stuff for hanging pa per, and that's the best you can say of It" and the rivalry of Jim Huf-faker Huf-faker "that thlevln' squatter!" "Where's your tent?" I Inquired. "Out back," replied Mrs. Barnaby. Then she saved me the embarrassment of asking further questions by adding: "I live there with another lady the one that was with me when they got us robbed." "Mrs. Dvaner" I asked, my eagerness eager-ness betraying me Into a bold question. ques-tion. "How'd you know her name?" responded re-sponded Mrs. Barnaby sharply, and then: "Oh, yes, you was gallivantin' round with her by the dead horse. Everybody gallivants with her. or tries to." "And Mr. Deane?" "Ain't no Mr. Deune. 's far as is visible vis-ible to the eye," replied Mrs. Barnaby. Then she seemed to pull back, as though already she had gone too far. She gathered up a pile of soiled dishes and sped Dack to the kitchen. When she returned. It was only to shun down another plate of hot cakes, remarking that If those didn't fill me up, I wasn't going to get filled. She did not reappear, reap-pear, even though I dawdled over my rating. Nor did any other feminine lif-'tire part fie flap of the front door. Evidently Mrs. Deane breakfasted v. rly. -o nt last I finished, wiped my fin--.-rs -jn my handkerchief, and strolled " it .f doors. Automatically, as though !;o longer governed by my conscious r ind. I turned not toward camp but the hill. Behind the wailed tent of the boarding house stood a smaller tent, Its door-flaps hooked back to take advantage of the sun. And In the entrance en-trance sat Mrs. Deane. Her eyes were searching the far distances. Her hands lay In her lap. They held a newspaper. newspa-per. The same automatic impulse which had turned me In the direction of the cabin carried my feet toward her. Her eyes fixed themselves absently on me for a moment before she gave a little start, leaned back In her chair. My sharpened Intuitions told me that she had suddenly drawn some Imperceptible Impercepti-ble curtain of feminine reserve. Then she smiled; a slow smile which began with her deep blue eyes and seemed to run, like the morning sunlight djwn a peak, unlil It wanned her firm, slit pel y mouth. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Gllson," she said, conventionally but cordially. I approached, stood at her side. I was six feet one In those days. I must have towered above her; and for an Instant I read In her eyes something akin to panic. Did she tremble? It was no more than a flutter, but It suggested sug-gested fear. Then she rose suddenly and "Let me get you a chair!" she said. She had dropped the newspaper. As I picked It up and restored It to her, I saw that it was this morning's Cottonwood Cotton-wood Courier. My eye, following her swift, easy movement Into the cabin, caught dimly a background of feminine femi-nine neatness and decorative Instinct a pine bunk covered with a clean sheet In lieu of a spread, a worn but well-swept strip of Ingrain carpet, a mirror In a plush frame, a picture superfluously su-perfluously decorated at the corner of Its frame with bows of blue ribbon. And there floated out to me a subtle suggestion of perfume, which went to my head like wine. She returned with a rough pine chair, set It beside her own. "I'm a fellow boarder of yours," I said as we seated ourselves. "I've Just given my digestion Into the care of Mrs. Barnaby." "It's safe, I think," commented Mrs. Deane. "She's an Inspired cook though she has little enough to work with here." Her trouble Is that she's too generous. She has to be a little gruff to guard herself against herself." "I can readily understand that," I replied. Then Mrs. Deane looked up very serious now and, catching at a past phrase In my narrative, asked: "Did you say that you were an editor?" edi-tor?" It had been long since I had opportunity oppor-tunity to confide In a woman; and I fairly reveled In the luxury, telling the story of my struggles with mining, my lucky call on Marcus Handy, and my first night on a newspaper. She seemed amused at first; then a shade crossed her expression and "You didn't come to Interview me?" she asked suddenly and rather breathlessly. breath-lessly. This question chilled like a dash of cold water my glowing mood. But I hasteued to clear myself. "Xo why should I? We haven't a society column as yet," I added with an awkward attempt at subtle gallantry. gal-lantry. "Besides, Sunday Is my day off. There's no paper on Monday morning." She did not answer this. A moment of silence followed until she turned the subject with : "This must be wonderful for a man this life up here!" "It Is," said I. "And why not for a woman?" "Is anything so wonderful for a woman as for a man, 1 wonder?" she asked. "You must remember, too, that we can't go to the Black Jack and the Comstock Lode." She smiled at that mld-VIctorlan conceit; and I smiled back. To Mrs. Deane's generation and mine, the picture of a lady In any establishment es-tablishment where hard liquor was sold publicly, seemed so Impossible as to be humorous, grotesque. "Then you don't really like our camp?" said I. almost resentfully. My one night on the Cottonwood Courier had begun to develop my spirit of lu-cal lu-cal pride. "In flashes, I do," she replied. "'Sort of,' as the native Yankee says. But I'm afraid I'm too much a woman to like it wholly. It's terribly brutal in places. I can't as yet take all this talk about gold with the proper seriousness. seri-ousness. Wlren they talk to me about 'clean-ups' Isn't that the word? my mind only pictures the stupendous quantity of chased bracelets and ear-riugs ear-riugs and settings for brooches that It will make! I like to sing at the piano and to embroider little designs and to paint little water-color landscapes, and to go to church and pretend that I'm really sorry for my little sins, and to make little calls, and to gossip discreetly dis-creetly as a lady should about why John broke his engagement to Mary. I love gossip. That on the surface. And deeper down security!" She had preceded that word "security" by one of her delicious little rests In the rhythm of her speech ; and when she came out with it. her voice seemed to have fallen a whole octave. "Yes," she continued, hoginning almost al-most under her breath, "I love security se-curity 1 I didn't once. I wonder If I haven't a little piece of man In me. But I've learned better. A woman has I to follow her nature. Security now above everything. Something you can count on." Somehow, I had taken it for granted grant-ed that Mrs. Deane was older than I, having yet to learn that any woman Is Inlinltely older in wisdom of the spirit than any man. I turned and looked at her with new eyes. Not the shadow of the tiniest ridge or wrinkle broke the smooth contour of her skin, now tanned to a delicate golden cream color. This woman, speaking so somberly som-berly of deep things she was only a young girl after all ... as I watched her looking with absent eyes toward the panorama of the peaks, I felt that the air about her quivered with an Intangible tension, as though ghostly armies were arrayed for battle. bat-tle. Up from the cluster of tents and cabins rose the sound of voices singing sing-ing to the accompaniment of a melo-deon melo-deon : "Alas and Did My Savior Bleed." Services were beginning In the gospel tent. It seemed that her reminiscent mood had broken. She changed the subject abruptly to personalities per-sonalities of the camp. None of them did I recognize until she asked: "Do you know the sheriff or marshal or whatever they call him the one with the wide hat and the impressive Imperial Mr. McGrath?" "I've met him ; he registered my claim," I replied. "Seems like a good fellow," I added, my sense of Justice struggling with a less generous emotion. emo-tion. "He comes In sometimes for meals," volunteered Mrs. Deane. "Everyone compliments his shooting I It's odd, Isn't It, living In a world where skill at killing men Is the quality everyone " In the Entrance Sat Mrs. Deane Her Eyes Were Searching the Far Distances. Dis-tances. most admires? But I suppose war Is that way, too. I suppose men are that way when they are left alone. I've heard my father say " Was she trying try-ing to tantalize me, that she drew up always Just short of a revelation? For she stopped and, as though to change the subject, glanced down at the Cottonwood Cot-tonwood Courier, lying wind-blown at her feet. "I see by your paper we had another an-other robbery yesterday," she said. "Yes. I wrote the account. Mr. Handy says It's all the work of one gang. He thinks they may have accomplices ac-complices In camp." The moment I came out with this, I wished It unsaid. un-said. It seemed like betraying the confidence con-fidence of my paper. Mrs. Deane responded re-sponded with a casual, balanced "In- deed?" and somehow her own Inscrutability Inscru-tability spurred me on to still deeper confidences. "There was one odd thing about that stage robbery," I said. "You know I saw more of It than I admitted that day. I didn't shoot," I went on, hastily justifying myself for my old failure of courage, "because my partner wouldn't let me. He felt that ve'd only endanger endan-ger the lives of the passengers. But their horses were tethered in the bushes beside the road. My partner and I were hidden on the ridge above. We could see them you couldn't. There was one peculiar horse a buckskin buck-skin with a big white mark on his flank. Like that" I picked up a (wig, sketched the pattern on the ground. "A buckskin?" Inquired Mrs. Deane. "That's what they call It here yellow yel-low almost the shade of a light tan kid glove. Another curious thing probably Just my imagination, but It struck me at the time. Once one of the bandits who lay on the rocks covering cov-ering the passengers rose up and seemed to be signaling to someone In the stage. I've wondered If It might be the express messenger." "As likely as anyone," replied Mrs. Deane. "How do you know, up here, that anyone Is what we'd call good in the East?" But she caught her breath as she said It, and paused a moment before she remarked In her voice that dripped the words like honey : "You men must find what shall I call It? spiritual release In all this! An atmosphere where you don't have to behave unless you want to." "Don't you feel any release yourself?" your-self?" I asked. "I think I did at first In my weak, feminine way," she replied. "It's after all quite glorious to be starting Into a new world, your Rubicon crossed. But afterward " she spread out her hands with a pretty, fluttering gesture "afterward you realize what you are a woman after all. I suppose, though, that we'll have the last word! The thing you're making here In Cottonwood Cotton-wood camp Is only a set of nests for a set of women." Her eyes brightened to mirth as she played on with her fantasy. "You're now Just gathering the sticks and straws and squabbling over them !" Mrs. Barnaby was picking her way up the muddy path between her kitchen kitch-en tent and the cabin. Mrs. Deane looked up, perceived her. "Gracious! and I promised Mrs. Barnaby Bar-naby to tidy this place up for Sunday!" Sun-day!" said Mrs. Deane. Reading In this my dismissal, I rose. She kept her seat But as she looked up to my farewell bow, I felt again a curtain drawn between her soul and mine. Only behind the curtain burned the light of some emotion again, was It fear? CHAPTER VI Somewhat In spite of my will, the next fortnight gave me my bearings In Cottonwood camp. Like any young Journalist, I was at first far more Interested In-terested In what I would have called "life" than In the business of life. My knowledge of camp politics and camp finance I took In unconsciously through my pores, while consciously absorbed In the thrilling details of four or five murders three suicides, Innumerable In-numerable holdups ; the miner who had fallen down a prospect hole, the prospector pros-pector who had fought off a grizzly bear with a crowbar. Marcus himself attended to mining and political news, gathering his Items and writing them or In an emergency setting them up without the Intervention Interven-tion of paper and pencil during the spare moments when he was not lay- lug out editorial policy, Bollcltlng advertisements, ad-vertisements, making np forms, collecting col-lecting from advertisers, or planning what he called his "expansion." For In the period Marcus had laid his hands on Mannle Leaventritt, a young and ambitious but Impecunious newcomer, new-comer, hud set him to soliciting subscriptions sub-scriptions on commission. A week later, Mannle was with us permanently as circulation manager, his staff our two brightest newsboys, transformed to carriers. As we expanded and grew, we added an aged clerk to write business busi-ness letters and keep books. Then Marcus, as he expressed It himself, "snagged a pressman" one morning from the stage, put him to 'work on the footpower job press which had all this time stood Idle In a corner of the lean-to. Thereafter Mannle added to his activities that of soliciting Job printing on commission. By now I was lodging with Marcus In his cabin behind Siegel's, sharing an eight-by-ten room, where I slept on a rough wooden cot without sheets, and with a sack of waste paper for a pillow. pil-low. Whenever the cold west wind blew, the unchinked walls peppered us with jets of shrill air. Marcus boarded, however, not with Mrs. Barnaby but with Jim Huffaker. I was glad of that; I shrank a little from contemplation contempla-tion of the moment when that shrewd Intelligence would perceive my reason for boarding with Mrs. Barnaby. As I began to think on the subject, the law and government of our camp seemed to me at times only a part of Its plcturesqueness and at others Just ridiculous. These young commonwealths common-wealths of the West, I have since found, varied greatly In the speed and efficiency with which they organized for law. All depended, I suppose, on what element first arrived. With us the gamblers, the saloon keepers, the purveyors of Illicit pleasures, the actual criminals had outnumbered at first the forces of sobriety. And by virtue of this majority, we still ordered or-dered our society by gun law. Municipal government, really, there was none. When, the year before, placer gold was discovered along the creek, the early arrivals had formed a miner's court which administered Its own justice In Its own rude way. In the autumn Judge Cowan had arrived to establish formal assizes. Taking account of public opinion, he appointed as his sole executive official Chris McGrath, Mc-Grath, the outstanding pistol artist of Cottonwood. Of McGrath's antecedents no one knew anything at all ; in that stage of mining camp society, personal Inquiry was a serious breach of etiquette. eti-quette. He had come into camp with a bunch of cowboys and gained admiration admira-tion by pinking In the center of the, forehead a footpad who actually had the drop on him at the time. His rough personal charm did the rest. The title of town marshal went by courtesy only. Doc Evans, whom I now suspect of having left the East for the East's health, and morality, was deputy county coroner. He served without pay, getting his profit from the practice which his office attracted. at-tracted. I visited Judge Cowan's courtroom during his spring term. A relic of an earlier and even rougher day, he had "read law" In some backwoods Ohio office before he stampeded west for gold. Having failed at mining, he picked up a living, during the brief prosperity of Grizzly, a mining camp now abandoned, by practice of his old profession. Then production departed de-parted from Grizzly. But In default of any other settlement large enough to be called a town, It remained the county seat. Lawyer Cowan remained re-mained ; became, In default of a better, bet-ter, Judge Cowan ; still In default of a better, held on when the territory attained statehood. His reading In law appeared to me as slight as his , knowledge of grammar. Off the bench, spite of his egotisms, he had a kind of natural good-fellowship; and his penchant for stale, racy anecdote did his popularity no harm with the element which fringed his courtroom. He had a full docket, which he ran with a speed mimicking efficiency. It Included six murder cases all the gun episodes that Chris McGrath and Doc Evans had seen fit to bring to the attention of Justice. Arthur Col-liver, Col-liver, a swart, lean Kentucklan, already al-ready a marked figure in camp for his reckless gambling and his dashing appearance ap-pearance when he drove out with "the fancy," represented five of the defendants. In every case he Introduced Intro-duced the same plea "self-defense." The procedure was monotonously Invariable. In-variable. Chris McGrath presented u panel of Jurors. The Ignorant and weak-voiced prosecuting attorney who accompanied Judge Cowan from Grizzly Griz-zly seldom Interposed a challenge; the process of seating lasted only half an hour. The attorneys raced through the business of taking testimony; tin stage was set for the great moment of the summing-up. A courtroom In 4 mining It camp? You don't Know tl H half of It till you'vt, read the nxt Installment. ,, L J riO BIS gomtNUKU.l |