THE LIGHT: OF
“3 WESTERN
ELA
(Continued from last week).
SYNOPSIS
R IL—Arriving at the lonely
railroad station of El Cajon, New
Madeline Hammond, New York
finds no one to meet her. While in
waiting rocm a drunken cowboy en-
she is married, and departs,
ving her terrified, He returns with a
Jest, who goes through some sort of
remony, and the cowboy forces her to
“SL.” Asking her name and learning
Fidennty the cowboy seems dazed. In
fics tng scrape outside the room a
can is killed. The cowboy lots a
h *Bonita, take his horse and escape,
conducts Madeline to Florence
Y, friend of her brother.
ER II.—Florence welcomes her,
her story, and dismisses the cow-
y, Gene Stewart. Next day Alfred
ond, Madeline's brother, takes
tewart to task. Madeline exonerates
of any wrong intent.
III.—Alfred, scion of a
thy family, had been dismissed from
home because of his dissipation.
Madeline sees that the West has re-
deemed him. She meets Stillwell, Al's
employer, typical western ranchman.
eline learns Stewart has gone over
the border.
CHAPTER IV.—Danny Mains, one of
Stillwell's cowboys, has disappeared,
with some of Stillwell's money. His
friends his name with the girl Bo-
CHAPTER V.—Madeline gets a glimpse
of life on a western ranch,
CHAPTER VI1.—Stewart’s horse comes
to the ranch with a note on the saddle
asking Madeline to accept the beautiful
animal. With her brother's consent she
does so, naming him “Majesty,” her own
pet nickname. Madeline, independently
rich, arranges to buy Smaps ranch
that of Don Carlos, a Mexican neigh-
CHAPTER VII.—Madeline feels she
has found her right place, under the light
of the western stars.
CHAPTER VIIIL.—Learning Stewart had
Joon hurt in a brawl at Chiricahua, and
nowing her brother's fondness for him,
Madeline visits him and persuades him to
oome to the ranch as the boss of her
cowboys.
CHAPTER IX.—Jim Nels, Nick Steele
and “Monty” Price are Madeline's chief
riders. They have a feud with Don Car-
los’ vaqueros, who are really guerrillas.
Madeline pledges Stewart to see that
peace is kept
CHAPTER X.—Madeline and Florence,
peturning home from Alfred’s ranch, run
to an ambush of vaqueros. Florence,
owing the Mexicans are after Made-
line, decoys them away, and Madeline
gets home safely but alone.
CHAPTER XI1.—A raiding guerrilla
Ad carries off Madeline. Stewart fol-
ws alone. The leader is a man with
whom Stewart had served in Mexico. He
releases the girl, arranging for ransom.
Returning home with Stewart, Madeline
finds herself strangely stirred.
CHAPTER XII. — Madeline's sister
Helen, with a party of eastern friends,
arrives at the ranch, craving excitement.
CHAPTER XIII.—For the guests’ enter-
tainment a game of golf is arranged.
Stewart interrupts the game, insisting
the whole party return at once to the
house. He tells Madeline her guests are
not safe while the Mexican revolution is
going on, and urges them to go up to
the mountains out of danger. They de-
cide to do so.
CHAPTER XIV.—The guerrillas leave
during the night, without making trouble,
Madeline and her guests, with the cow-
boys, go up to the mountains.
CHAPTER XV.—Edith Wayne pleads
with Madeline to return to the East, but
she refuses.
CHAPTER XVI.—Wandering in the
mountains, Madeline sees Stewart with
the girl Bonita, and comes to the worst
conclusions. At camp Stewart offers to
explain. Madeline will not listen. Stew-
art, in a rage, starts to leave camp. Nels
brings news that Don Carlos and his
followers are coming.
CHAPTER XVII.—The women are con-
cealed, and the approach of the guerril-
las awaited. They come, blustering, but
Stewart's determined attitude cows them,
and they leave hastily. The party at once
begins its return to the ranch.
CHAPTER XVIII.—Alfred Hammond,
who has been in California, writes Made-
line announcing his immediate return and
that he will marry Florence at once. He
arrives, the wedding ‘akes place, but the
festivities are interrupted by the arrival
of Pat Hawe, sheriff of El Cajon, who
declares his intention of arresting Stew-
art for the murder of a Mexican on the
night when Stewart first met Madeline.
To save Stewart, Madeline tells the whole
story. Hawe insults her, and Stewart,
who is unarmed, is prevented by f
orce
from attacking him, “Monty” Price de-
nounces Hawe and his deputy, and in a
pistol duel kills ther both, but loses his
own life,
Madeline’s dignity and self-posses-
sion had been disturbed by Stewart's
importunity. She broke Into swift, dis-
connected speech:
“He came into the station—a few
minutes after I got there. 1 asked—to
be shown to a hotel. He said there
wasn’t any that would accommodate
married women. He grasped my hand
—looked for a wedding-ring. Then I
saw he was—he was intoxicated. He
told me he would go for a hotel porter.
But he came back with a padre—Padre
Marcos. The poor priest was—terribly
frightened. So was I. Stewart had
turned into a devil. He fired his gun
at the padre’s feet. He pushed me
onto a bench. Again he shot—right
before my face. I—I nearly fainted.
But I heard him cursing the padre—
heard the padre praying or chanting—
I didn’t know what. Stewart tried to
make me say things in Spanish. All
at once he asked my name. I told
him. He jerked at my veil. I took it
off. Then he threw his gun down--
pushed the padre out of the door. That
was just before the vaqueros ap-
proached with Bonita. Padre Marcos
must have seen them—must have heard
them. After that Stewart grew quick:
ly sober. He told me he had been
drinking at a wedding—I remember, it
was Ed Linton's wedding. Then he ex-
plained—the boys were always gum-
bling—he wagered he would marry the
A. \ ITT
{ first girl who arrived at El Cajon. 1
happened to be the first one. He tried
to force me to marry him. The rest—
relating to the assault on the vaquero
—1I have already told you.”
Madeline ended, ovt breath and
panting, with her hands pressed upon
her heaving bosom.
Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw
back his head.
“Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say,
Sneed. you didn’t miss any of it, did
ye? Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in
all my born days. Ho, ho!”
Then he ceased laughing, and with
glinting gaze upon Madeline, insolent
end vicious and savage, he began to
drawl:
“Wal now, my lady, I reckcn , a
story, if it tallies with Bonita’s an’
Padre Marcos’, will clear Gere Stew-
art fn the eyes of the court.” Here he
grew slower, more biting, sharper ara
harder of face. “But you needn't ex-
pect Pat Hawe or the court to swalier
thet part of your story—about bein
detained unwillin’!”
Madeline had not time to grasp the
sense of his last words. Stewart had
dunvuisively sprung upward, white as
chalk. As he leaped at Hawe Stillweli
interposed his huge bulk and wrapped
bis arms around Stewart. There was
“He Wagered He Would Marry the
First Girl Who Arrived at EI Cajon.”
a brief, whirling, wrestling struggle.
Stewart appeared to be besting the old
cattleman.
“Help, boys, help!” yelled Stillwell.
“I can’t hold him. Hurry, or there's
goin’ to be blood spilled!”
Nick Steele and several cowboys
leaped to Stillwell’s assistance.
“Gene! Why, Gene!” panted the old
cattleman. “Sure you're locoed—to act
this way. Cool down! Cool down!
Why, boy, it’s all right. Jest stand
still—give us a chance to talk to you.
It's only ole Bill, you know—your ole
pal who's tried to be a daddy to you.
He's only wantin’ you to hev sense—to
be cool—to wait.”
“Let me go! Let me go!” cried
Stewart ; and the poignancy of that cry
pierced Madeline's heart. “Let me go,
Bill, if you're my friend. I saved your
life once—over in the desert. You
swore you'd never forget. Boys, make
him let me go! Oh, I don’t care what
Hawe’s said or done to me! It was
that about her! Are you all a lot of
Greasers? How can you stand it?
D—n you for a lot of cowards! There's
a limit, I tell you.” Then his voice
broke, fell to a whisper. “Bill, dear
old Bill, let me go. Ill kill him! You
know I'll kill him!”
“Gene, I know you'd kill him if you
hed an even break,” replied Stillwell,
soothingly. “But, Gene, why, you ain't
even packin’ a gun! An’ there's Pat
lookin’ nasty, with his hand nervous-
like. He seen you hed no gun. He'd
jump at the chance to plug you now,
an’ then holler about opposition to the
law. Cool down, son; it'll all come
right.”
Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by
a terrible sound. Her startled glance
shifted from the anxious group round
Stewart to see that Monty Price had
leaped off the porch. He crouched
down with his hands below his hips,
where the big guns swung. From his
distorted ‘lips issued that sound which
was combined roar and bellow and In-
dian war-whoop, and, more than all, a
horrible warning cry. He was quiver-
ing, vibrating. His eyes; black and
hot, were fastened with most piercing
Intentness upon Hawe and Sneed.
“Git back, Bill, git back!” he roared,
“Git ‘em back!”
With one lunge Stillwell shoved
Stewart and Nick and the other cow-
boys upon the porch. Then he crowded
Madeline and Alfred and Florence to
the wall, tried to force them farther.
His motions were rapid and stern. But
falling to get them tbrough door and
windows, he planted his wide person
5 ARTY | Al Bnet Ee.
between the women and danger. Made-
line grasped his arm, held on, and
peered fearfully from behind his broad
shoulder.
“You, Hawe! You, Sneed!” called
Monty, in that same wild voice. “Don’t
you move a finger er an eyelash!”
Madeline's faculties nerved to keen,
thrilling divination. She grasped the
relation between Monty's terrible cry
and the strange hunched posture he
had assumed.
“Nels, git in this!” yelled Monty:
and all the time he never shifted his
intent gaze as much as a hair’s-breadth
from Hawe and his deputy. “Nels,
chase away them two fellers hangin’
back there. Chase 'em, quick!”
These men, the two deputies who had
remained in the background with the
pack-horses, did not wait for Nels.
They spurred their mounts, wheeled,
and galloped away.
“Now, Nels, cut the gurl loose,” or-
dered Monty.
Nels ran forward, jerked the halter
out of Sneed's hand, and pulled Bon-
ita’s horse in close to the porch. As
he slit the rope which bound her she
fell into his arms.
“Hawe, git down!” went on Monty.
“Face front an’ stiff!”
The sheriff swung his leg, and, never
moving his hands, with his face now a
deathly, sickening white, he slid to
the ground.
“Line up there beside your guerrilla
pard. There! You two inake a d- -u
fine pictoor, a d—n fine team
pizened coyote an’ a cross between
wild muie an’ a Greaser. Now listen I™
Monty made a long pause, in whiei
his breathing was plainly audible.
Madeline’s eyes were riveted upon
Monty. Her mind, swift as lightning,
had gathered the subtleties in action
and word succeeding his domination
of the men. Violence, terrible violence
the thing she had felt, the thing she
had feared, the thing she had sought
to eliminate from among her cow-
boys, was, after many months, about
to be enacted before her eyes. It had
come at last. She had softened Still-
well, she had influenced Nels, she had
changed Stewart; but this little black-
faced, terrible Monty Price now rose,
as it were, out of his past wild years,
and no power on earth or in heaven
could stay his hand. With eyes slow-
ly hazing red, she watched him; she
listened with thrumming ears; she
waited, slowly sagging against Still-
well.
‘“Hawe, if you an’ your dirty pard
hev loved the sound of human voice,
then listen- an’ listen hard,” said
Monty. “Fer I've been goin’ contrary
to my ole style jest to hev a talk
with you. You all but got away on
your nerve, didn’t you? ’Cause why?
You roll in here like a mad steer an’
flash yer badge an’ talk mean, then
almost bluff away with it. You heerd
all about Miss Hammond's cowboy
outfit stoppin’ drinkin’ an’ cussin’ an’
packin’ guns. They've took on re-
ligion an’ decent livin’, an’ sure they'll
be easy to hobbie an’ drive to jail.
Hawe, listen. There was a good an’
noble an’ be-ootiful woman come out
of the East somewheres, an’ she
brought a lot of sunshine an’ happi-
ness an’ new idees into the tough lives
of cowboys. I reckon it’s beyond you
to know what she come to mean tc
them. Wal, I'll tell you. They-all went
clean out of their heads. They-all got
soft an’ easy an’ sweet-tempered.
They got so they couldn't kill a coy-
‘te, a crippled calf in a mud-hole.
ffven me—an ole, worn-out, hobble-
legged, burned-up cowman like me!
Do you git thet? An’ you, Mister
Hawe, you come along, not satisfied
with ropin’ an’ beatin’, an’ Gaw knows
what else, of thet friendless little
Bonita; you come along an’ face the
lady we fellers honor an’ love an’ rev-
erence, an’ you—you— H—I's fire!”
With whistling breath, foaming at
the mouth, Monty Price crouched
lower, hands at his hips, and he edged
inch by inch farther out from the
porch, closer to Hawe and Sneed.
Madeline saw them only in the
blurred fringe of her sight. They re-
sembled specters. She heard the
shrill whistle of a horse and recog-
nized Majesty calling her from the
corral.
“Thet’s all!” roared Monty, in a
voice now strangling. Lower and low-
er he bent, a terrible figure of ferocity.
R
iH
Lower and Lower He Bent, a Terrible
Figure of Ferocity.
“Now, both you armed officers of the
law, come on! Flash your guns!
Throw ° em, an’ be quick! Monty Price
Is done! There'll be daylight. through
you both before you fan a hammer!
But I'm givin’ you a chanst to sting
me. You holler law, an’ my way’ is
the ole law.”
His breath came quicker, his voice
grew hoarser, and he crouched lower.
All his body except his rigid arms
juivered with a wonderful muscular
convulsion,
“Dogs! Skunks! Buzzards! Flash
them guns, er I'll flash mine! Aha!”
To Madeline it seemed the three
stiff, crouching men leaped into in-
stant and united action. She saw
streaks of fire—streaks of smoke.
Then a crashing volley deafened her.
It ceased as quickly. Smoke veiled
the scene. Slowly it drifted away to
disclose three fallen men, one . of
whom, Monty, leaned on his
hand, a smoking gun in his right. He
watched for a movement from the
other two. It did not come. Then,
with a terrible smile, he slid back and
stretched out.
CHAPTER XIX
Unbridled.
In waking and sleeping hours, Made-
line Hammond could not release her-
self from the thralling memory of tha®
tragedy. She was haunted by Monty
Price's terrible smile. Only in action
of some kind could she escape; and
to that end she worked, she walked
and rode. She even overcame a strong
feeling, which she feared was unrea-
sonable disgust, for the Mexican girl
Bonita, who lay {ll at the ranch,
hiruised and feverish, in need of skill-
nl nursing.
One ¢#ernoon she rode down to the
alraifa fields, round them, and hae
up to the spillway of the lower lake,
wnere a group of mesquite-trees, ow-
ing to the water that seeped througn
tne sand to their roots, had taken om
bloom and beauty of renewed life. Un-
der these trees there was shade
enough to make a pleasant plac» te
linger. Madeline dismounted, desiring
to rest a little.
Her horse, Majesty, tossed his hend
and flung his mane and switched his
tail at the flies. He would rather
have been cutting the wind down thé
valley slope. Madeline sat with her
back against a tree, and took off her
sombrero. Suddenly Majesty picked
up his long ears and snorted. Then
Madeline heard a slow pad of hoofs.
A horse was approaching from the di-
rection of the lake. Madeline had
learned to be wary, and, mounting
Majesty, she turned him toward the
open. A moment later she felt glad
of her caution, for, looking back be-
tween the trees, she saw Stewart lead-
ing a horse into the grove. She would
as lief have met a guerrilla as this
cowboy.
Majesty had broken into a trot
when a shrill whistle rent the air. The
horse leaped and, wheeling so swiftly
that he nearly unseated Madeline, he
charged back straight for the mes-
quites. Madeline spoke to him, cried
angrily at him, pulled with all her
strength upon the bridle, but was
helplessly unable to stop him. He
whistled a piercing blast. Madeline
realized then that Stewart, his old
master, had called him and that noth-
ing could turn him. She gave up try-
ing, and the horse thumped into an
aisle between the trees and, stopping
before Stewart, whinnied eagerly.
“I want to talk to you,” said Stew-
art,
Madeline started, turned to him.
and now she saw the earlier Stewart,
the man who reminded her of their
first meeting at El Cajon, of that
memorable meeting at Chiricahua.
“I want to ask you something,” he
went on. “I've been wanting to know
something. That’s why I’ve hung on
here. But now I'm going over—over
the border. And I want to know.
Why did you refuse to listen to me?”
At his last words that hot shame,
tenfold more stifling than when it had
before humiliated Madeline, rushed
over her, sending the scarlet in a wave
to her temples. Biting her lips to
hold back speech, she jerked on Maj-
esty’s bridle, struck him with her
whip, spurred him, Stewart's iron arm
held the horse. Then Madeline, in a
flash of passion, struck at Stewart’s
face, missed it, struck again, and hit.
With one pull, almost drawing her
from the saddle, he tore the whip from
her hands. It was not that action on
his part, or the sudden strong master-
fulness of his look, so much as the
livid mark on his face where the whip
had lashed that quieted, if it did not
check, her fury.
“That’s nothng,” he sald, with some-
thing of his old audacity. “That's
nothing to how you've hurt me.”
Madeline battled with herself for
control. This man would not be de
nied. About him now there was only
the ghost of that finer, gentler man
she had helped to bring into being.
The piercing dark eyes he bent upon
her burned her, went through her as
if he were looking into her soul. Then
Madeline's quick sight caught a fleet-
ing doubt, a wistfulness, a surprised
and saddened certainty in his eyes,
saw it shade and pass away. Her
woman’s intuition, as keen as her
sight, told her Stewart in that moment
had sustained a shock of bitter, final
truth.
For the third time he repeated his
question to her. Madeline did not an-
swer ; she could not speak,
“You don’t know I love you, do
you?’ he continued, passionately.
“That ever since you stood before me
in that hole at Chiricahua I've loved
you? You can’t see I've been another
man, loving you, working for you, liv-
ing for you? You won't believe I've
turned my back on the old wild life,
that I've been decent and honorable
and happy and useful—your kind of
a cowboy? You couldn't tell, though
I loved you, that I never wanted you
to know It, that I never dared to
think of you except as my angel, my
holy Virgin? What do you know of
a man's heart and soul? How could
you tell of the love, the salvation of
left
a man who's lived his life in the si-
lence and loneliness? Who could teach
vou the actual truth—that a wild cow-
boy, faithless to mother and sister, ex-
cept in memory, riding a hard, drunk-
en trail straight to hell, had looked
ii to the face, the eyes of a beautiful
woman infinitely beyond him, above
bim, and had so loved her that he was
saved—that he became faithful again
—that he saw her face in every flow-
er and her eyes in the blue heaven?”
Madeline was mute. She heard her
heart thundering in her ears.
Stewart leaped at ner. His power-
ful hand closed on her arm. She
trembled. His action presaged the
old instinctive violence.
“No; but you think 1 kept Bonita
up in the mountains, that 1 went se
cretly to meet her, that all the while
I served you I was— Oh, I know
what you think! I know now. !
never knew till 1 made you look at
me. Now, say it! Speak!”
White-hot, blinded, utterly in the
flery grasp of passion, powerless tc
stem the rush of a word both shame
ful and revealing and fatal, Madeline
cried:
“Yes 1m
He had wrenched that word from
her, but he was not subtle enough, not
versed in the mystery of woman’
motive enough, to divine the deep
significance of her reply.
For him the word had only liters:
meaning confirming the dishonor in
which she held him. Dropping her
arm, he shrank back, a strange action
ror the savage and crude man she
judged him to be.
“But that day at Chiricahua you
spoke of faith,” he burst out. *You
said the greatest thing in the worla
was faith in human nature. You saia
you had faith in me! You made me
have faith in myself!”
His reproach, without bitterness or
scorn, was a lash to her old egoistie
belief in her fairness. She had
preached a beautiful principle that
she had failed to live up to.
“You think I am vile,” he said. “You
think that about Bonita! And all the
time I've been . . . 1 could make
you ashamed—I could tell you—"
His passionate utterance ceased
with a snap of his teeth. His lips set
in a thin, bitter line. The agitation
of his face preceded a conclusive
wrestling of his shoulders.
“No, no!” he panted. Was it his
answer to some mighty temptation?
Then, like a bent sapling released, he
sprang erect. “But I'll be the man—
the dog—you think me!”
He laid hold of her arm with rude,
powerful clutch. One pull drew her
sliding half out of the saddle into his
arms. She fell with ner breast against
his. not wholly free of stirrups or
horse, and there she hung, utterly
powerless. Maddened, writhing, she
tore to release herself, All she could
accomplish was to twist herself, raise
herself high enough to see his face.
That almost paralyzed her. Did he
mean to kill her? Then he wrapped
his arms around her and crushed her
tighter, close to him. She felt the
pound of his heart; her own seemed
to have frozen. Then he pressed his
burning lips to hers. It was a long,
terrible kiss. She felt him shake.
“Oh, Stewart! I—implore—you—
let—me—go !” she whispered.
His white face loomed over hers.
She closed her eyes. He rained kisses
upon her face, but no more upon her
mouth. On her closed eyes, her hair,
her cheeks, her neck he pressed swift
lips—Ilips that lost their fire and grew
cold. Then he released her, and, lift-
ing and righting her in the saddle, he
still held her arm to keep her from
falling.
For a moment Madeline sat on her
horse with shut eyes. She dreaded
the light.
“Now you can't say you've never
been kissed,” Stewart said. His voice
“Now You Can't Say You've Never
Been Kissed,” Stewart Said.
seemed a long way off, “But that was
coming to you, so be game. Here!”
She felt something. hard and cold
and metallic thrust into her hand. He
made her fingers close over it, hold it.
The feel of the thing revived her. She
opened her eyes. Stewart had given
her his gun. He stood with his broad
breast against her knee, and she
looked up to see that old mocking
smile on his face.
“Go ahead! Throw my gun on me!
Be a thoroughbred!”
Madeline did not yet grasp his mean.
ing.
“You can put me down in that
quiet place on the hill—beside Monty
Price.”
S————,
Madeline dropped the gun’ with &
shuddering cry of horror. The sense
of his words, the memory of Monty,
the certainty that she would kill Stew-
art if she held the gun an instant
longer, tortured the self-accusing cry
from her.
Stewart stooped to pick up the
weapon.
“You might have saved me a h—l of
a lot of trouble,” he said, with anoth-
er flash of the mocking smile. “You're
beautiful and sweet and proud, but
you're no thoroughbred! Majesty
Hammond, adios!”
Stewart leaped for the saddle of his
horse, and with the flying mount
crashed through the mesquites to dis-
appear.
CHAPTER XX
The Secret Told.
Late in the night Madeline felt
usleep. In the morning she was paie
and languid, but in a mental condition
that promised composure.
It was considerably after her regm-
lar hour that Madeline repaired to ber
office. The door was open, and inst
outside, tipped back in a chair, sat
Stillwell.
“Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” he said, as
he rose to greet her with his usnat
courtesy. Madeline shrank inwardly,
fearing his old lamentations about
Stewart. Then she saw a dusty, ragged
pony in the yard and a little burro
drooping under a heavy pack. Both
animals bore evidence of long, ardu-
ons travel.
“To whom do they belong?" asked
Madeline,
“Them critters? Why, Daan3
Mains,” replied Stillwell, with a cougk
chat betrayed embarrassment.
“Is Danny Mains here?’ she asked,
mn sudden curiosity.
The old cattleman nodded gloomily.
“Yep, he’s hyar, ali right. Sloped in
irom the hills an’ he hollered to see
Bonita. He’s locoed, too, about that
ifttle black-eyed hussy. Why, he hard-
{y said, ‘Howdy, Bill,’ before he began
to ask wild an’ eager questions. I took
nim in to see Bonita. He's been there
more’n a half-hour now.”
Rapid footsteps with an accompani-
ment of clinking spurs sounded in the
hallway. Then a young man ran out
unon the porch. He was a handsome,
frank-faced boy. At sight of Madeline
he slammed down his sombrero and,
leaping at her, he possessed himself of
her hands. His swift violence not only
alarmed her, but painfully reminded
her of something she wished to forget.
This cowboy bent his head and
kissed her hands and wrung them, and
when he straightened up he was cry-
ing.
“Miss Hammond, she’s safe an’ al-
most well, an’ what I feared most ain’t
so, thank God,” he cried. “Sure I'll
never be able to pay you for all you've
done for her. She's told me how she
was dragged down here, how Gene
tried to save her, how you spoke up
for Gene an’ her, too, how Monty at
the last throwed his guns. Poor
Monty! We were good friends, Monty
an’ L There's Nels an’ Nick an’ Gene,
he's been some friend to me; but
Monty Price was—he was grand. He
never knew, any more than you or
Bill, here, or the boys, what Bonita
was to me.”
Stillwell’s kind and heavy hand fell
upon the cowboy’s shoulder.
“Danny, what’s all this queer gab?”
he asked. “An’ you're takin’ some lib-
erty with Miss Hammond, who never
seen you before. I see you're not
drinkin’. Come, ease up now an’ talk
sense.”
The cowboy's fine, frank face broke
into a smile. He dashed the tears
from his eyes. Then he laughed. His
laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring—=a
happy ring.
“Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a
minute, will you?’ Then he bowed to
Madeline. “I beg your pardon, Miss
Hammond, for seemin’ rudeness. I'm
Danny Mains. An’ Bonita is my wife.
I'm so crazy glad she’s safe an’ un-
harmed—so grateful to you that—why,
sure it's a wonder I didn’t kiss you
outright.”
“Bonita’s your wife!”
Stillwell, :
“Sure. We've been married for
months,” replied Danny, happily.
“Gene Stewart did it. Good old Gene.
I guess maybe I haven't come to pay
him up for all he’s done for me! You
gee, I've been in love with Bonita for
two years. An’ Gene—you know, Bill,
what a way Gene has with girls—he
was—well, he was tryin’ to get Bonita
to have me.”
(To be continued).
ejaculated
Ancestors of the Necktie.
The necktie came into use as some-
thing with which to Warm the neck in
cold weather. The ruff was the fore-
runner of the bit of color that is knot-
ted at a man’s throat today.
After the ruff came neckcloths of
Brussels lace, which were at one time
worn so long that the ends were tucked
in the waistcoat. Later a broad silk
ribbon was worn and the grandfather
of the cake eater wore a cravat which
passed twice around the collar. The
modern scarf made its appearance
about forty years ago.
Softening Phonograph Tones.
Undesirable high tones, or ‘“whis-
ties,” an annoyance commonly experi-
enced by phonograph users, may be
eliminated by the use of interference
tubes. They consist of U-shaped metal
appliances, designed to be incorporated
in a main tube thdt is fitted between
the réproducer and tone-arm of ‘a talk-
ing machine. According to the inven-
tor, the arrangement of bypaths for the
sound waves causes certain of these
to be considerably softened with but
little loss in volume,