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Show I Little Journeys in ' Americana , $ f By LESTER B. COLBY ? Pelathe, the Eagle DELATHE. the Eale, rides. Pity 1 the chestnut mare. Pelathe rides to warn a city of impending disaster.. He rides to warn sleeping Lawrence. Kansas, of massacre at dawn. For Quantrill, bushwhacker, wholesale murder in his heart, Is riding west in a rage to burn and destroy. All night" Qunutrill has been riding at the head of his 450 men. He has routed farmers out of bed to act as his guide. When he is done with a guide he shoots hint. Dead men are safe and silent History says be murdered mur-dered ten guides that night. Quindaro Is an outpost of Kansas City. Theodore Bnrtles, scout, holds the head of his chestnut mare. She is fleet, stout of heart, deep chested, a thoroughbred. Scout Bartles loves that mare but he is about to sacrifice her. Pelathe, the Eagle, tosses a light blanket across her back. He needs no saddle. Every ounce of extra weight will count on this ride. The chestnut mare breaks Into a full run. Pelathe. the Eagle, is riding. And Quantrill has a long head start. Ten miles out of Quindaro and the little mare's breath Is coming in sobs. Pelathe, the Eagle, talks soothingly. He caresses her; urges her on. Another An-other mile or two and she begins to falter. Ah, a stream! Pelathe. the Eagle, slips to the ground. He wets the end of his blanket and wipes her foaming mouth. He runs the damp cloth Into her nostrils; nos-trils; over her head. Then he takes the dry end of the blanket and wipes her dripping legs and heaving flanks. He gives her a drink of water, just a drink the last drink she shall ever have! Pelathe takes her by the brldie, leads her to the top of the rise gently. Pelathe, slender, bold, brave Shawnee Indian, knows horses; he knows how to get the last ounce of strength out of them. And this ride Is to warn a city of impending doom. Lightly the Eagle vaults to the back of the chestnut mare. She breaks Into a run for the second time. Stronger now. She has gained her second wind. On. on, on to Lawrence, Kan., the doomed city. Can he make It ahead of Quantriii? .Mile after mile. P.rave little mare. Only a few more miles now. She Is faltering. Her sides tremble. Her legs weaken. She is going down. But Pelathe, the Eagle, knows a trick ! Cruel, inhuman I Yes, but a sleeping sleep-ing city must be warned of Its doom. Pelathe, the Eagle, draws his knife. He rips the shoulders of Scout Bar-ties Bar-ties beloved chestnut mare. Blood gushes and spatters on the ground. Pelathe rubs raw gunpowder Into the flowing wounds. Pain more Intense than the pain from her bursting lungs flashes through the body of the gasping animal. ani-mal. Perhaps some chemical action on her blood gives strength. With a groan the chestnut mare springs forward. for-ward. There Is new power In her faltering legs. And a mile or sc further furth-er Is tfte village of the Delawnres. Will she make It? Bravely 'she runs. No, she (alters again and with a moan drops dead I Pelathe, the Eagle, lands on his feet running. He dashes like a sprinter to the Delaware vlllnge. With a war-whoop to arouse the camp, he rushes to the corral, ne cannot afford af-ford to be shot as a horsethlef. A word and he Is on a fresh steed, a sturdy Indian pony. The quarter-moon quarter-moon Is growing dimmer. Soon the sun will rise. Quantrill will strike at dawn. Now the dawn begins to come. God In Heaven I Pelathe, the Eagle, looks down Into In-to the valley on Lawrence. Ills ride has been In vnln. Miles back, on the road from Quindaro, the little chestnut mare lies still In darkening blood. Too late! In the light of the dnwn Pelathe, the Eagle, looks upon burning houses. The screams of weeping women mingle with fierce oaths. Guns roar. Villagers, while lipped, see their last Bunrlse. The butchery that cost, that August morning In 1803, not fewer than iriO lives. Is on. Quantrill and his men are making a shambles of Lawrence. Their cry to the- ashen-faced, weeping, uew-made widows Is: "We are devils from hell 1" Pelathe, the Eagle, sits on his pony, a statue In the dawn. His face Is burled In his hands. ((cX 1829. Lcnlor B Colby.) |