[ THE LIGHT: OF - ° Wd WAH Bee } "STARS Cor iconed from last week). SYNOPSIS CHAPTER I.—Arriving at the lonely little railroad station of El Cajon, New Mexico, Madeline Hammond, New York 1, finds no one to meet her. While in e waiting room a drunken cowboy en- ters, asks if she is married, and departs, leaving her terrified, He returns with a priest, who goes through some sort of Soremory and the cowboy forces her to y “Si.” Asking her name and learning = identity the cowboy seems dazed. In a shooting scrape outside the room a Mexican is killed. The cowboy lets a rl, “Bonita,” .ake his horse and escape, en conducts Madeline to Florence Kingsley, friend of her brother. CHAPTER II.—Florence welcomes her, learns her story, and dismisses the cow- boy, Gene Stewart. Next day Alfred Hammond, Madeline's brother, takes Stewart to tack. Madeline exonerates him of any wrong intent. CHAPTER II} Sister and Brother. Then Madeline returned to the little parlor with the brother whom she had hardly recognized. “Majesty!” he exclaimed. of your being here!” The warmth stole back along her veins. She remembered how that pet pame had sounded from the lips of this brother who had given it to her. “Alfred!” “Dear old girl,” he said, “you haven't changed at all, except to grow “To think “Dear Old Girl,” He Said. fovelier. Only you're & woman now, and you've fulfilled the name I gave you. G—d! how sight of you brings back home! It seems a hundred years since I left. TI missed you more than ull the rest.” Madeline seemed to feel with his ev- ery word that she was remembering him. She was so amazed at the change in him that she could not believe her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong- jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, su- perb of height, and, like the cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. She had bid den good-by to a disgraced, disin- herited, dissolute boy. Well she re- membered the handsome pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless smile, with the ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips. The years had passed, and now she saw him a man—the West had made him a man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her sudden inspired hatred of the West. “Majesty, it was good of you to come, I'm all broken up. How did you ever do it? Rut never mind that now. Tell me about that brother of mine.” : And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen. Question after question he fired at her; and she told him of her mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old friends, married, scattered, vanished. Put she did not tell him of his father, for he did not ask. Quite suddenly the rapid-fire ques- tioning ceased; he choked, was silent a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her that a long, stored- up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her to see him—hurt her more to hear him. And in the succeeding few moments she grew closer to him than she had ever been In the past. Had her father and mother done right by him? Her pulse stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not speak, but she kissed him, which, for her, was an indication of unusual feeling. And when he recovered command over his emotions he made no reference to his breakdown, nor did she. But that scene struck deep into Madeline Ham- mond’s heart. Through it she saw what he had lost and galned. “Alfred, why did you not answey my last letters?” asked Madeline, “I had not heard from you for two years.” “So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad with me about the last time I heard from you. I always intended to write some day, but I i % A Roma nce 4 a never did. You remember all about my little ranch, and that for a while I did well raising stock? I wrote you ail that. Majesty, a man makes ene- mies anywhere. Perhaps an eastern man in the West can make, if not so many, certainly more bitter ones. At any rate, I made several. There was a cattleman, Ward by name—he’s gone now—and he and I had trouble over cattle. That gave me a back-set. Pat HWawe, the sheriff here, has been in- strumental in hurting my business. He's not so much of a rancher, but he has influence at Santa Fe and El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy of him. I never did anything to him, The real reason for his animosity toward me is that he loves Florence, and Florence Is going to marry me.” “Alfred!” “What's the matter, Majesty? Didn't Florence impress you favorably? he gsked, with a keen glance. “Why—yes, indeed. I like her. But 1 did not think of her In relation to you—that way. I am greatly surprised. Alfred, is she well born? What con- nections?” “Florence is ust a girl of ordinary people. She was born in Kentucky, was brought up in Texas. My aristo- cratic and wealthy family would scorn—" ~“Alfred. you are still a Harmamond ” said Madeline, with uplifted bead Alfred laughed. “We won't quae rel. Majesty. I remember you, and in =pite of your pride you've got a heat, it vou stay here a month you'll Jor2 Florence Kingsley. J want you m0 know she’s had a great deal to do with straightening me up. Well. to go on with my story, There's Don Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he's my worst enemy. Don Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the ranges, ne has the water, and he is dishonest, So he outfigured me. And now 1 am practically ruined. He has not gotten possession of my ranch, hut that’s on'y a matter of time, pending lawsuits at Santa Fe. At present I have a tew hundred cattle running on Still- well’s range, and T am his foreman.” “Foreman?” queried Madeline. “L amssimply boss of Stillwell’s eow- poys, and right glad of my job.” Madeline was conscious of an ward burning. It required an effort Tor her to retain her outward tranquil ny. “Cannot your property be re- ciaimed?”’ she asked. “How much dao yon owe?” “Ten thousand dollars ‘would clear me and give me another start. Buf, Majesty, in this country that’s a good deal of money, and I haven't been able to raise it, Stillwell’s in worse shape than I am.” Madeline went over to Alfred and | put her hands on his shoulders. “We must not be in debt.” He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long forgotten. Then he smiled. “How imperious you are! I'd for- gotten just who my beautiful sister really is. Majesty, you're not going to ask me to take money from you?” a7 am.” “Well, I'll not do it. 1 never did, even when I was in college, and then there wasn’t much beyond me.” “Listen, Alfred,” she went on, ear- nestly, “this is entirely different. I bad only an allowance then. You had no way to know that since I last wrote you I had come into my inheri- tance from Aunt Grace. It was— well, that doesn’t matter. Only, I haven't been able to spend half the fncome., It's mine. It’s not father's money. You will make me very happy if you'll consent. What is ten thou- sand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month, I throw money away. If you let me help you it. will be doing me good as well as you. Please, Alfred.” “You always were the best of fel- lows, Majesty. And if you really care —if you really want to help me I'll be only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will 'go wild. And that Greaser won't harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, jokingly. “What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly. “More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West we get news, Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?” Madeline detected a hint that sug- gested scorn in his gay speech, And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, soclety. “Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don’t believe any titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegdntly express it.” “I don’t care for that. It's youl!” he cried, passionately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled her. in- : —— —————— He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You are so splendid—so won- derful. People called you the Ameri- can Beauty, but you're more than that. You're the American Girl! DNajesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men—the real men of your own country.” “Alfred, I'm afraid there are not al- ways real men and real love for Amer- ican girls in international marriages. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, 'way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as Maj- esty Hammond.” “I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh. “I told Flor- ence about you—gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She’s in love with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York pa- pers ott here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in partic- ular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps ‘a lot of things you never did. Majesty, I must run down to the sid- ing,” consulting his watch. “We're loading a shipment of cattle. I'll be back by supper time and bring Still- well with me. You'll like him.” Madeline went to her room, intend- ing to rest awhile, and she fell asleep. She was aroused by Florence's knock and call. “Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with Stillwell.” Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch.: Her brother, who was sit- ting near the door, jumped up and said: “Hello, Majesty!” And as he put his arm around her he turned toward a massive man whose broad, craggy face began to ripple and wrinkle. “I want to introduce my friend Stillwell to yon. Bill. this Is my sister, the sister I've sn often told you about—Majesty.” “Wal, wal, Al, this ’s the proudest meetin’ of my life,” replied Stillwell fu a booming volen. Be exter ded n huge hand. “Miss—Miss sight of you Is as welcome as the rain an’ the flowers to an old desert cattle- man.” Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to repress a cry at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp of iron. He was old, white-haired, weather-beaten, with long furrows down his cheeks and with gray eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was smiling she fancied it a most extraor- dinary smile. The next instant she realized that it had been a smile, for his face appeared te stop rippling, the | light died, and suddenly it was like rudely chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she had seen in Stewart wus immeasurably intensified in this old man's face. “Miss Majesty, it’s plumb humiliatin’ to all ef us thet we wasn't on hand; to “Miss Majesty, It's Plumb Humillatin' To All of Us Thet We Wasn't on Hand to Meet You,” Stillwell Said. meet you,” Stillwell said. “I'm sure afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer you last night at the station. Wal, I'm some glad to tell you thet there's no man in these parts except your brother thet I'd-as lief hev met you as Gene Stewart.” “Indeed?” “Yes, an’ thet’s takin’ into considera: tion Gene's weakness, too. I'm allus fond of sayin’ of myself thet I'm the last of the old cattlemen. Wal, Stew: art’s not a native westerner, but he's my pick of the ‘last of the cowboys. Sure, he’s young, but he’s the last of the old style—the picturesque—an’ chivalrous, too, I make bold to say, Miss Majesty, as well as the old hard- ridin’ kind. Folks are down on Stew- art. An’ I'm only sayin’ a good word for him because he is down, an’ mebbe last night he might hev scared you, you bein’ fresh from the East.” Madeline liked the old feilow for his loyalty to the cowboy he evidently cared for; but as there did not seem anything for her to say, she remained silent, “Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein’ as you're in the West now, thet you must take things as they come, an’ mind each thing a little less than the one before, If we old fellers hedn’t beer thet way we'd never hev lasted. “Last night wasn’t particular bad, ratin’ with some other nights lately, There wasn’t much doin’. But I had a hard knock. Yesterday when we started in with a bunch of cattle 1 sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains, along ahead, carryin’ money I hed to Majesty, ; pay off hands an’ my bills, an’ I want: ed thet money to get in town before dark. Wal, Danny was held up. 1 don’t distrust the lad. There's been strange Greasers in town lately, an’ mebbe they knew about the money comin’. “Wal, when I arrived with the cat: tle I was some put to it to make ends meet. An’ today I wasn’t in no angelic humor. When I hed my business all done 1 went arqQund pokin’ my nose heah an’ there, tryin’ to get scent of thet meney. An’ I happened in at a hall we hev thet does duty fer jail an’ hospital an’ election-post an’ what not. Wal, just then it was doin’ duty as a hospital. Last night was flesta night—these Greasers hev a fiesta ev: ery week or so—an’ one Greaser whe had been bad hurt was layin’ in the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. “The hall was full of cowboys, ranch: ers, Greasers, miners, an’ town folks. along with some strangers. I was about to get started up this way wher Pat Hawe come in, “Pat, he’s the sheriff. He come ini¢c the hall, an’ he was roarin’ about things. He was goin’ to arrest Danny Mains on sight. told Pat thet the money was mine an’ he needn't get riled about it. An’ if I wanted to trail the thief I reckor I could do it as well as anybody. “Then he cooled down a bit an’ was askin’ questions about the wounded Greaser when Gene Stewart comes in. Whenever Pat an’ Gene come together it reminds me of the early days back in the 'seventies. Jest naturally ev- erybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene, an’ I reckon Gene ain't very sweet on Pat. * ‘Hello Stewart! You're the feller I'm lookin’ fer,’ said Pat. ‘There was some queer goings-on last night thet vou know somethin’ about. Danny Afains robbed—Stillwell’s money gone —your roan horse gone—an’ thi sreaser gone, too. Now, seein’ thet <ul was up late an’ prowlin’ round the station where this Greaser was “voyul. it ain't onreasonable to think you might know how he got plugged —is 1t? “Stewart laughed kind of cold, an’ he rolled a cigarette, all the time eyein’ Pat, an’ then he sald if he'd plugged the Greaser it'd never hev been sich a buanglin® job. “‘l can arrest you om suspicion, Stewart, but before I go thet far I want some evidence. I want to find out what's become of your hoss. You've never lent him since you hed him, an’ there ain't enough raiders across the border to steal him from you. It’s got a queer look—thet hoss bein’ gone. You was drunk last night? “Stewart never batted an eye. * ‘You met some woman on Number Eight, didn’t you? shouted Hawe. “‘I met a lady,’ replied Stewart, quiet an’ menacin’ like. * ‘You met Al Hammond's sister, an’ you tock her up to Kingsley’s. An’ cinch this, my cowboy cavalier,’ I'm goin’ up there an’ ask this grand dame some questions, an’ if she’s as close- mouthed as you are I'll arrest her?! “Gene Stewart turned white. one expected to see him jump like lightnin,’ as he does when he’s riled sudden. But he was calm an’ he was thinkin’ hard. Presently he said: “ ‘Pat, thet's a fool idee, an’ if you do the trick it’il hurt you all the rest of your life. There's absolutely no rea- son to frighten Miss Hammond. An’ tryin’ to arrest her would be such a d—d outrage as won't be stood fer in El Cajon. If you're sore on me send me to jail. I'll go. If you. want to hurt Al Hammond, go an’ do it some man kind of way. Don’t take your spite out on us by insultin’ a lady who has ¢ome hyar to hev a little visit. We're bad enough without bein’ low- down as Greasers.’ “It was.a long talk for Gene, an’ 1 was as surprised as the rest of the fel- fers. It was plain to me an’ others who spoke of it afterward thet Pat Hawe hed forgotten the law an’ the officer in the man an’ his hate, “‘I'm a-goin’, an’ I'm a-goin’ right wow!" he shouted. “Stewart seemed kind of chokin’, an’ he seemed to hev been bewildered by the Idee of Hawe’s confrontin’ you. “An’ finally. he burst out: ‘But, man, think who it is! It’s Miss Ham- mond! If you seen her, even if you was locoed or drunk. you—you couldn't do it. “‘Couldn’t I? Wal, I'll show you d—n quick. What do I care who she is? Them swell eastern women—I've heerd of them. They're not so much. This Hammond woman—' “Suddenly Hawe shut up, an’ with his red mug turnin’ green he went for his gun.” Stillwell paused in his narrative to get breath, and he wiped his molst brow. And now his face began to lose its cragginess. It changed, it softened. it rippled and wrinkled, and all that strange mobility focused and shone in a wonderful smile. “An’ then, Miss Majesty, then there was somethin’ happened. Stewart took Pat’s gun away from him and throwed it on the fioor. An’ what followed was beautiful. Sure it was the beautiful est sight I ever seen. Only it was over so soon! A little while after, when the doctor came, he hed another patient besides the wounded Greaser, an’ he said thet this new one would re- quire about four months to be up an’ around cheerful-like again. An’ Gene Stewart hed hit the trail for the bor- der.” CHAPTER IV A Ride From Sunrise to Sunset. Next morning, when Madeline was aroused by her brother, it was not yet daybreak; the air chilled her, and in the gray gloom she had to feel around for matches and larmap. Her usual languid manner vanished at a touch Wal; I jest polite-like |. 1 fer of the cold water. Presently, when “Well, If | Havent Some Color!” She Exclaimed. Alfred knocked on her door and said he was leaving a pitcher of hot water outside, she replied, with chattering teeth, “Th-thank y-you, h-but I d-don’t ne-need any now.” She found it neces- sary, however, to warm her numb fin- gers before she could fasten hooks and buttons. And when she was dressec she marked in the dim mirror thar there were tinges ef red in her cheeks. “Well, if I haven't some color!” she exclaimed. Breakfast waited for her in the dn: fng-room. The sisters ate with ner. Madeline quickly caught the feeling or hrisk action that seemed to be In the fir. Then Alfred came stamping in. “Majesty, here’s where you get tne real thing” he announced. merrily, “We're rushing you off, I'm sorry to : bu tl k to the | say t We must lustle hugs, fo tu ‘what lay. beyond. That climb wag ranch. The fall round-up begins: tp: morrow. You will ride in the buck- board with Florence and Stillwe'l. I'll ride on ahead with the boys and fix up a little for you at the ranch. It's a long ride out—nearly fifty miles by wagon-road. Flo, don’t forget a couple of robes. Wrap her up well. And hustle getting ready. We're waiting.” A little later, when Madeline went out with Florence, the gray gloom was lightening. Horses were champing bits and pounding gravel. “Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” said Still- well, gruffly, from the front seat of & Sigh vehicle. Alfred bundled her up into the back seat, and Florence after her, and wrapped them with robes. Ther he i mounted his horse and started off. As Madeline gazed about her and listened to her companions, the sun rose higher and grew warm and soared and grew hot; the horses held tire- lessly to their steady trot, and mile after mile of rolling land slipped by. From the top of a ridge Madeline saw down into a hollow where a few of the cowboys had stopped and were sitting round a fire, evidently busy at the noonday meal. Their horses were feeding on the long, gray grass. “Wal, smell of thet burnin’ grease- wood makes my mouth water,” said Stillwell. “I'm sure hungry. We'll noon hyar an’ let the hosses rest. Ii's a long pull to the ranch.” During lunch-time Madeline observed | chilly. N “It was Danny Mains’ brome.” “How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply. “Bill, the left front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked. Any of the boys can tell you. rd know thet track if I was blind.” “Nels, you don’t think the boy's sloped with thet little hussy, Bonita?” “Bill, he shore was sweet on Bonita, same as Gene was, an’ Ed Linton be- fore he got engaged, an’ all the boys. She’s shore chain-lightnin’, that little black-eyed devil. Danny might hev sloped with her all right. Danny was held up on the way to town, an’ then in the shame of it he got drunk. But he'll show up soon.” “Wal, mebbe you an’ the boys are right. I believe you are. Nels, there ain't no doubt on earth about who was ridin’ Stewart’s hoss?” “Thet's as plain as the hoss’ tracks.” “Wal, it's all amazin’ strange. It beats me. I wish the boys would ease ap on drinkin’. I was pretty fond of Danny an’ Gene, I'm afraid Gene's done fer, sure. If he crosses the bor- der where he can fight it won't take long fer him to get plugged. I guess I'm gettin’ old. I don’t stand things like I used to.” “Bill, I reckon I'd better hit the Pei- oncillo trail.” Mebbe I can find Danny.” “I reckon you had, Nels,” replied Stillwell. “But don’t take more’n a couple of days. We can't do much on the round-up without you. I'm short of boys.” That ended the conversation. Still well immediately began to hitch up nis team, and the cowboys went out to fetch their strayed horses. Made- itne had been curiously interested, and she saw that Florence knew it. “Things happen, Miss Hammond,” she sald, soberly, almost sadly. Madeline thought. And then straight- way Florence began brightly to hum & une and to busy herself repacking what was left of the lunch. Madeline suddenly conceived a strong liking and respect for this Western girl Soon they were once more bowling along the road down a gradual In cline, and then they began to climb a long ridge that had for hours hidden rather tiresome, owing to’ the sun ana the dust and the restricted view. Presently, at the top of the steep ascent, Stillwell got out and walked, leading the team. During this long ellmb fatigue claimed Madeline, and she drowsily closed her eyes, to find when she opened them again that the glaring white sky had changed to a steel-blue. The sun had sunk behind the foothills and the air was growing Stillwell had returned to the driving-seat and was chuckling to the horses. Shadows crept up out of the hollows. “Wal, Flo,” sald Stillwell, “I reckon we’d better hev the rest of thet there lunch before dark.” “You didn’t leaves much of 1t.” laughed Florence, as she produced the basket from under the seat. While they ate, the short twilight shaded and gloom filled the hollows. Madeline was glad to have the robes { close around her and to lean against * Florence. There were drowsier spells in which she lost a feeling of where she was, and these were disturbed by the jolt of wheels over a rough place. ! Then came a blank interval, short or { long, which ended in a more violent i shoulder. that she was an object of manifestly great interest to the three cowboys. - TONE IN “AFRICAN WIRELESS” caused them painful embarrassment. : She returned the compliment, and was amused to see that a glance their way They were grown men—one of whom had white hair—yet they acted like ; boys caught in the act of stealing a | forbidden look at a pretty girl. “Cowboys are sure all flirts.” said Florence, as if stating an uninteresting fact. But Madeline detected a merry twinkle in her clear eyes. The cow- boys heard, and the effect upon them was magical, They fell to shamed confusion and to hurried useless tasks. “Haw, haw !” roared Stillwell. “Flor- ence, you jest hit the nail on the hald. Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I was wonderin’ why them boys nooned hyar. This ain't no place to noon. Ain't no grazin’ or wood wuth burnin’ or nuth- fn’. Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs an’ waited fer us. It aln’t so surprisin’ fer Boely an’ Ned— they're young an’ coltish—but Nels there, why, he's old enough to be the paw of both you girls. It sure is amaz- in’ strange.” A silence ensued. The white-haired cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over the campfire, and then straightened up with a very red face. “Bill, you're a dog-gone liar,” he sald. “I reckon I won't stand to be classed with Booly an’ Ned. There ain't no cowboy on this range thet’s more appreciatin’ of the ladies than me, but I shore ain't ridin’ out of my way. I reckon I hev encugh ridin’ to do. Now, Bill, if you've sich dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’ on the way out?” “Nels, I hevn't seen nothin’,” he re- plied, bluntly. “Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks,” said Nels, and he drew Still- well a few paces aside and pointed to large hoofprints in the dust. “I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?” “Gene Stewart's roan, or I'm a son- of-a-gun!” exclaimed Stillwell, and he dropped heavily to his knees and began to scrutinize the tracks. Nels, who- ever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met somebody. An’ they hauled up a bit, but didn’t git down.” “Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin’,” replied the cowboy. *I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?” “I'm thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure.” i lurch of the buckboard. Madeline awoke to find her head on Florence's She sat up laughing and apologizing for her laziness. Florence assured her they would soon reach the ranch. (To be continued). Matter That Has Long Baffled Euro- peans Seems to Have Been Cleared Up by Discovery. Just at the time when the British are expecting authorization of their own wireless broadcasting, the secret of African “wireless”—the drum mes- sages that have bafiled the curiosity of travelers, explorers and big game hunters ever since they have known of it—has been discovered. Everyone who has traveled in Africa has listened with a thrill to the drums of the natives rolling and tapping off a message to a distant village, which in turn sends it on. The message may be anything, a social announcement, a dance invitation or a tribal call to arms for war. That these messages are accurate has been proved time and again, Always there has been an astonish- Ing accuracy about native messages sent in this way, and the natural con- clusion was that they used a code. This, indeed, was the general conclu- sion. But it is not so. The man who has discovered the secret, a well- known African explorer, : tells the writer that the drum messages are tonic. That is they depend on tone. He has brought home to England the complete tone system.—Chicago Amer lean. Saving Wild Life. Lovers of woodland life will be heartened to learn that efforts for the conservation of the bison, or buffalo, as we more commonly say in America, have succeeded to the extent that there are 3,000 more of the animals now than two decades ago. The fact is of chief significance as showing a way of preventing the extinction of valuable or interesting species of wild life. If the states, with the co-opera- tion of their citizens, will do half as much for the preservation of birds and game as the national government has done for the bison during these last Z0 years, a stupid and shameful chap- ter of our history will be rewritten in happier terms.—Atlanta Journai.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers