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Show THE RED LOCK tli 11 ,vny Id ll light tilk'KT " tim wound knows the way to It den. And the safe lit homo a cracksman from tlit city tried Hint one night. The old innn I. lew n hole In tilM ribs the size of an open liiind with a Huweri-jf Huweri-jf shotgun he always kept near hi bed. The old bunker hud JiiKt cloned hlH desk, picked up the rusty satchel, nnd come out on the porch of the Ht ore when IiIm daughter und the big wood limn Joined the crowd around the post olllco a crowil doubly In rife, gathered for the doubly auspicious occuhIoii. The girl run to her fiither and slipped iin arm ubout bla waist, lie looked down at her and grunted. It was the only sign he gave that he knew uhe was there. Up beyond the Warhope farmstead there came a prodigious rattle of wheels, a clatter of Iron-shod hoofs, and the Mllford stage dashed Into sight ; roared across the wooden bridge where the Klver road crossed Eagle ruD ; rumbled pust the church Into the village and pulled up In front of the post office. The crowd flocked around it. The guard threw off the mall sack. Zeke Pollck picked It up and carried It In, and the lumbering stage rattled away down the river. One passenger had alighted, a tall young man wearing a full beard, neatly cropped and pointed the new preacher, preach-er, without a doubt quite the oddest array of satchels and umbrella, patent leather boots and high hat, stiff neck stock and enormous spectacles, that had ever Invaded the Flatwoods. He seemed nervous as he stood at the side of the road peering through his enormous spectacles, slightly amber tinted, upon the crowd. The old banker, with his daughter a step behind him, advanced, touched hla fuded black hat and extended his hand. "The Rev. Caleb Hopkins, I 'low?" The eyes behind the huge spectacles lighted. The young preacher dropped one of bis satchels and met the outstretched out-stretched hand. A. Tale of ihe Flatwoods ' By DAVID ANDERSON Author of "Tit Blus Moon" Coiiyriaht Lj Thai llobbs -Morrill Co. THE PREACHER BYNOl'Pia. On the Imnlta of the Wnliwah Btarut Text Colin anil Jnok Wurhopo. youiiH" "J vflry much In lovo. Toxle Is tho only cliiuKhtur of old l'up Simon, rich man und monoy-lendur. Jnok Is the orphan hound bny of l'up Simon, who had forci:loncd u mortgage on the Warhopo 6Htal. At Itryt Toxlo and Jack talk Madly of Ken Colin, the tflrl's mlnuln brothur. Then Jack says that In ten days hi Hurvltudo will bt-over, bt-over, that he will ride out Into the blsr world to seek his fortune. Both know what that will mean to them. CHAPTER I Continued. 2 She glanced away along the distant windings of the road. "When men of the woods ride out yonder, they don't come buck. Ken didn't." The uiho' eyes searched her fuce tor some hidden meaning lu her words ; apparently did not find It. "I ain't nlmln" f let the big worl out yonder iwuller me up like It did Ken. Some flutboutmeu told me yes-terd'y yes-terd'y there s a wagon train makln' up In the city for the gold dlggin's In California. Y'u know, when a bound boy's time's out, the man he's bound to most gener'ly starts Tin off with a hoss and saddle and bridle. Pap Simon said he flg'r'd on glvln' me Graylock. "I "low we'll Jlne that wagon train Graylock and me. And when we find gold, we're comln' back." Ho stole a shy look at her. She p - his big hand and touched the smart bow of ribbon at her walMt. "W'y, didn't y'u know, tho new preacher's u-comln' on the Mllford slugo this ovenln', and we're all goln' f meet 'im you, too." The twinkle ut the corners of tho man's eyes deepened. "Am I?" "Father's already fixed It f'r 'im f havo the use of ol' preacher Mason's study at tho parsonage Mis' Mason's terrible lonesome senco the ol' preacher preach-er died, und he'll be company. He'll do 'Is wrltln' and makln' up 'Is sermons ser-mons thero. He'll board with us he ain't married, y'u know." Sho paused and laid u hand on the man's arm. Ho covered It with his greut palm; looked hard at her, with suddenly sobered eyes. "Ho was a classmate of Ken's," she went on, "and ha's now one of tho teuchers and preachers In the very college where Ken went." The man's eyes widened. She drew her hand from under his palm. "I 'low that's why father was g' quick t' hire 'im ; and mebbe that's why he was a' wlllln' t' come. He ain't none too well, his letter said, beln' nigh broke down with teachln' and preuchln', and ha 'lowed this would be a good place t' rest up In." Her eyes swept the serene landscape; land-scape; suddenly she raised an arm and pointed to the blurred end of the road. Ills eyes followed the direction of her rigid finger. The Mllford stage was Just crawling out of the bronze shadows shad-ows and coming Into view. The next moment she had seized his hand and was dragging him, half unwilling, down the cltil. CHAPTER II East Meets West Of four stages that passed through Buckeye each day the evening stage from up the rlvei- from the city twenty twen-ty miles above was by far the most Important. Its arrival was the one big event of the day. Half the village was usually gathered about the broken porch of Zeke Pollck's general store to see it come in. The Buckeye post office shifted back and forth across the River road about as often as the nation changed presidents. presi-dents. Zeke Pollck was a Whig, and the man In the White House In far-off "Ah Mr. Colin, I take itr "All but the mister. I'm Jlst plain SIme Colin." The old man grinned, as broadly as the pinched shrewdness of his dry face would allow. "I want y'u t' meet my daughter." He half turned ; Jerked his thumb toward the girl ; jerked it back toward the preacher. "Texie, Mr. Hopkins." The young preacher touched his tail hat; dropped his other satchel, grasped the girl's hand In both his own and pressed It closer than the occasion could possibly warrant. It may have been merely the expression ex-pression of a gonial nature touched with the fervency of his profession j the outflowing of a benevolence that embraced all humanity but even so. It brought a quick flush to the girl's face, and drove her eyes to the ground. The old banker had turned to the crowd. "Step up, step up," he called, "and shake hands with the new parson. The way y'u hang back, he'll think he's drapped off amongst a pack o' publicans pub-licans and sinners." The crowd had evidently been waiting wait-ing for just such an Invitation. Stolid faces raveled into grins, and the quaint vernacular of the Flatwoods had an airing. Odd bits of philosophy, ancient jokes, that nobody would have dared to spring on his neighbor, were freely sprung on the hapless and helpless help-less sojourner from the polite East. The Informal reception was over and most of the crowd gone when Texie noticed Jack Warhope still leaning against the porch post where she had left him. She ran back, caught hl arm and dragged him forward. "Mr. Hopkins, meet Ja Mr. War-hope." War-hope." "Glad to meet you, Mr. Warhop." The young preacher stretched forth his hand ; the other grasped It. The peering eyes behind the heavy glasses studied him with curious lntentness, but the woodsman, only mildly Interested, Inter-ested, missed the inquisitive look. The old banker had taken a step up the road. "Well," he said, "I 'low that Jlst about winds up the how-d'-y'-doin'. Texie, run In and git the mall, and we'll be moseyin'." He half turned and glanced back over his shoulder at the preacher. "I've dickered the use of our ol' preacher's study f'r y'u at the parsonage. parson-age. Sister Mason the wldder, y'u know she 'lows she'll be right glad to have y'u come over and use the study, she's that lonely sence the parson par-son died. We'll stop as we go a-past, and you can take a look at the study, and meet Sister Mason. But, as I writ y'u, I'm aimin' f'r y'u t' put up with me, at least f'r a few days" the brisk, raspy voice softened "I'm honein' t" have a talk with y'u about the boy." He glared down at the road; the preacher studied him curiously. - So long had the old money-lender been accustomed to dominate everybody every-body about him that it did not once occur to him to Inquire what the preacher's wishes might be. He strode another step or two up the road, remembered re-membered that his daughter had gone in after the mall, stopped and frowned half impatiently toward the store door. At that moment Texie came out with half a dozen letters in her hand, saw the big woodsman, and, with a tiny wisp of roguishness in her eyes, stopped on Khe edge of the porch. "Yes; there's a fairy peeping Into the spring right now." (TO BE CONTINUED.) dropped her eyes. "You'll frget the Flatwoods when you've found gold." He seemed to search her words again for some meaning that he wished much to find. But her face was very thoughtful and turned aside. "F'rget the Flatwoods! Where else In the world is there a sight like that? The minute I've got money enough I'm comln' buck. I'll buy the homestead buck f'om Pap Slinon; finish the house; and then " An arm unconsciously reached to I ward her. The movement brought the j red-roofed cottage Into his line of vis-Ion vis-Ion the red-roofed cottage, where lay paper that bound him to servitude. He drew his arm back ; crushed his I hat rim In his powerful fingers, j Down by the rivulet In the barn lot j the geese honked and clapped their wings. The sound aroused the man ' from the half bitter mood and he j glanced at his companion, to find her 1 eye6 upon him. "Jack " she hesitated; "do y'u i B'pose it could be the red lock that made Ken act like 'e did?" The question was so at variance with the man's trend of thought that he was a long time considering it. "It ain't the red lock," he finally answered In his slow way, "It's the drop of blood that come along with It. F'r that matter, though, every man gits a bad drop 'r two out of the past. But them bad drops can be overcome. If a man bucks ag'ln 'em. The trouble with Ken was it didn't 'pear like he wanted t' buck ag'in' his." "The 'curse of Colin,' " was the girl's musing comment. "F'r hundreds of years ever sence the days of 'Red Colin,' the old sea pirate It's be'n breakln' out In the family every few generations. It alw'ys worried Ken that It broke out on htm. I've sometimes some-times thought It would 'a' be'n better If he'd never 'a' found out the mean-In' mean-In' of that red lock that It was the 'curse of Colin' " "That's It," he commented. "I 'low Ken fig'r'd the curse had 'lm anyhow, and so it wasn't wo'th while t' buck ag'ln it." "Mother kep' the lock cut off, y'u know, till Ken was big enough t' notice It himself. After that he alw'ys kep' It combed under so's It didn't show. I don't reckon anybody In the Flat-woods Flat-woods but you and me and father know'd 'e had It." "Yes," the woodsman interrupted, "ol' Uncle Nick Wiflies knows. But that's as good as sayin' it's dead and burled. Nothin' ever gits a-past Uncle Nick's Jaw." He grinned, pushed up the mop of tousled hair that fell over his brow and pointed to a scar. "That's where Ken struck me with 'Is whip han'le the day I found out 'e had it." The girl ran her slim fingers over the scar. "And he cut me with the whip b'cause I flew at 'lm when 'e done it." "And then I hit 'im with a rock b'cause 'e cut you." The girl shivered. "I thought he'd kill y'u that day," she said. "His hat fell off, his hair was mussed, and y'u know how awful It made 'im look when that red lock worked out and fell down over 'is eyes wild and savage and terrible ; like ol' 'Red Colin' must 'a' looked. He Jerked y'u up and drawed the butt of 'is whip mercy I It makes me ihlver t' think about It. But he only laughed hard and wild and let y'u go." A smile crawled across the bold features of the woodsman, narrowed bis eyes and pinched out two queer little wisps of friendly frankness. "This ain't Fourth o' July, n'r ChrU'mas, 'r nobody's weddln'. How em t aoaneryl" He reached out The Old Man Grinned, as Broadly as the Pinched Shrewdness of His Dry Face Would Allow. Washington happened to be a Whig. That's why the post office was In a store on the north side of the road in the year of grace, 1849, instead of in a store on the south side. The River road was a bigger Institution Insti-tution than the town. It not only halved the town; it well-nigh halved Its political faith. From the Warhope farmstead at the east edge to the school house at the west edge, it formed, In political years, a sort of "devil's lane" between the north sid-ers sid-ers and the south siders. The farmstead farm-stead and the red-roofed cottage which Is to say Jack Warhope and the Colins were both on the north side of the road. Simon Colin had once been Zeke Polick's partner, but had dissolved the partnership years before to follow the more lucrative business of lending money and collecting rents mostly his own. A banker without a bank, so shrewd was his judgment and so hard the bargains he drove, that half the Flatwoods was under mortgage to him. He still kept a sort of office in the store a desk by the dusty window; a narrow shelf nailed along the tops of the palings at the longer side; a chair; a table against the wall, on it three or four law books that were never opened. There was no safe. That was at the red-roofed cottage. Not a very imposing office hut the commerce of the Flatwoods passed across those time-faded, unpalnted palings. Even Zeke Polick, Simon's closest business associate, would have been astonished to know the actual ac-tual wealth that journeyed In an old satchel back and forth every day between be-tween house and store. Dangerous? twice the attempt had been made to see inside that satcfcel, and a man had died each time. The old banker carried a huge double-barreled horse pistol, loaded half to the muzzle with buckshot, and ba knew |