THE MEYERSDALE COMMERCIAL
Rainbow's End
SA Novel
By REX CH
Author of “The Iron Trail,” “The
Spoilers,’ “Heart of the Sunset,” Etc.
Copyright, by Harper and Brothers)
—
Lo.
SECRET OF THE HIDING PLACE OF THE VARONA TREAS-
URE IS LOST
Synopsis.—Don Esteban Varona, a Cuban planter, hides his wealth
—inoney, jewels and title deeds—in a well on his estate.
place ts known only to Sebastian, a slave.
the birth of twins, Esteban and Rosa.
avaricious Donna Isabel, who tries unsuccessfully to wring the secret
of the hidden treasure from Sebastian.
urges Don Esteban to sell Evangelina, Sebastian's daughter.
isteban refuses, but in the course of a gambling orgie, he risks
Evangelina at cards and loses.
The hiding
Don Esteban’s wife dies at
Don Esteban marries the
Angered at his refusal, she
Don
CHAPTER I|I—Continued.
—
Don Pablo, in whom the liquor was
flying, cursed impatiently: “Caramba!
Blave I won the treasure of your whole
establishment?” he inquired. “Per-
haps you value this wench at more
than a thousand pesos; if so, you will
say that I cheated you.”
“No! She's only an ordinary girl
My wife doesn't like her, and so I de-
jermined to get rid of her. She is
yours, fairly enough,” Varona told him.
“Then send her to my house. Tl
preed her to Salvador, my cochero.
He's the strongest man I have.”
Sebastian uttered a strangled ery
and rose ‘to his feet. “Master! You
must not—"
“Silence!”
about your business.
mean by this, anyhow?”
But Sebastian, dazed of mind and
sick of soul, went ou, unheeding. “She
fs my girl. You promised me her free-
dom. I warn you—"
“Eh?” The planter swayed forward
and with blazing eyes surveyed his
slave. “You warn me? Of what?” he
growled.
At this moment neither master nor
man knew exactly what he said or did.
Sebastian raised his hand on high. In
reality the gesture was meant to call
‘heaven as a witness to his years of
faithful service, but, misconstruing his
intent, Pablo Peza brought his riding-
whip down across the old man's back,
werying:
“Ho! None of that.”
A shudder ran through Sebastian's
frame. Whirling, he seized Don Pab-
o's wrist and tore the whip from his
fingers. Although the Spaniard was a
strong man, he uttered a cry of pain.
| At this indignity to a guest Esteban
flew into a fury. “Pancho!” he cried.
“Io! Pancho!” When the manager
eame running, Esteban explained:
“This fool is dangerous. He raised his
hand to me and to Don Pablo.”
Sebastian’s protests were drowned
by the angry voices of the others.
“Pie him to yonder grating,” di-
rected Esteban, who was still in the
grip of a senseless rage. “Flog him
well and make haste about it.”
Sebastian, who had no time in which
to recover himself, made but a weak
resistance when Pancho Cueto locked
his wrists into a pair of clumsy, old-
fashioned manacles, first passing the
chain around one of the bars of the
iron window grating which Esteban
had indicated.
Cueto swung a heavy lash; the
sound of his blows echoed through the
quinta, and they summoned, among
others, Donna Isabel, who watched
tha scene from behind her shutter with
mach satisfaction. The guests looked
on approvingly.
Sebastian made no outcry. The whip
bit deep; it drew blood and raised
welts the thickness of one's thumb;
nevertheless, for the first few moments
the victim suffered less in body than in
spirit. His brain was so benumbed, so
shogked with other excitations, that
he was well-nigh insensible to physical
pain. That Evangelina, flesh of his
flesh, had been sold, that his lifelong
faithfulness had brought such reward
as this, that Esteban, light of his soul,
had turned against him—all this was
simgly astounding. Gradually he be-
gan to resent the shrieking injustice of
1t al}, and unsuspected forces gathered
inside of him. They grew until his
frame was shaken by primitive savage
impulses. .
After a time Don Esteban cried:
“Thgt will do, Cueto! Leave him now
for the flies to punish. They will re-
mind him of his insolence.”
Then the guests departed, and Este-
bun staggered into the house and went
to bed.
All that worning Sebastian stood
with his hands chained high over his
head. The sun grew hotter and ever
hotter upon his lacerated back; the
blood dried and clotted there; a cloud
of flies gathered, swarming over the
raw gashes left by Cueto’s whip.
Since Don Esteban’s nerves, or per-
haps it was his conscience, did not
permit him to sleep, he arose about
noontime and dressed himself. He was
gtill drunk, and the mad rage of the
early. morning still possessed him;
therefore, when he mounted his horse
he pretended not to see the figure
chained to the window grating. Sebas-
mian’s affection for his master was dog-
like and he had taken his punishrzant
as a dog iakes his. more in surprise
+han in anger, but at this proof of cal-
lous indifference g fire kindled in the
old fellow’s breast, hotter by far than
{as fever freis his fiy-blown sores. He
ordered Esteban. “Go
What do you
was thirsty, too, but that was the least
of his sufferings.
Some time during the afternoon the
negro heard himself addressed through
the window against the bars of which
he leaned. The speaker was Donna
Isabel.
“Do you suffer, Sebastian?” she be-
gan in a tone of gentleness and pity.
“Yes, mistress.” The speaker's
tongue was thick and swollen.
“Can I help you?”
The negro raised his head; he shook
his body to rid himself of the insects
which were devouring him.
“Give me a drink of water,” he sald,
hoarsely.
“Surely, a great gourdful, all cool
and dripping from the well. But first 1
want you to tell me something.”
“A drink, for the love of heaven,”
panted the old man, and Donna Isabel
saw how cracked and dry were his
thick lips, how mear the torture had
come to prostrating him.
“I'll do more,” she promised, and her
voice was like honey. “I'll tell Pancho
Cueto to unlock you, even if I risk Es-
teban’s anger by so doing. Will you be
my friend? Will you tell me some-
thing?”
“What can I tell you?"
“Oh, you know very well! I've asked
it often enough, but you have lied, just
as my husband has lied to me. Hels a
miser; he has no heart; he cares for
nobody, as you can see. You must
hate him ncw, even as I hate him. Tell
me—is there really a treasure, or—?"
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TIRANA) S 1 TT TTT
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. LAAN
“Tell Me—Is There Really a Treas-
ure, or—7"
The woman gasped; she choked; she
could scarcely force the question for
fear of disappointment. “Tell me there
is, Sebastian. I've heard so many lies
that I begin to doubt.”
The old man nodded. “Oh, yes, there
is a treasure,” said he.
“Oh! You have seen it?” Isabel
was trembling as if with an ague.
“What is it like? How much is there?
Good Sebastian, T'll give you water;
I'll have you set free if you tell me.”
“How much? I don’t know. But
there is much—pieces of Spanish gold,
silver coins in casks and in little boxes
—the boxes are bound with iron and
have hasps and staples; bars of
precious metal and little paper pack-
ages of gems, all tied up and hidden in
leather bags.”
“Yes! Go on.”
“There are ornaments, too. God
knows they must have come from
heaven, they are so beautiful; and
pearls from the Caribbean as large as
plums.”
“Are you speaking the truth?”
“Did I not make the hiding-place all
alone? Senora, everything is there just
as I tell you—and more. The grants of
title from the crown for this quinta
and the sugar plantations, they are
there, too. Don Esteban used to fear
the government officials, so he hid his
papers securely. Without them the
ands belong to no one. You under-
stand ?”’
“Of rourse! Yes, yes! But the jew-
els— Where are they hidden?”
“You would never guess!” Sehas
| time it was here.
tian’s voice gathered strength. “Ten
thousand men in ten thousand years
would never find the place, and nobody
knows the secret but Don Esteban and
me.”
“I believe you. I knew all the
Well? Where is it?”
Sebastian hesitated and said, pite-
ously, “I am dying—"
Isabel could scarcely contain herself.
“I'll give you water, but first tell me
where—where! God in heaven! Can't
you see that I, too, am perishing?”
“I must have a drink.”
“Tell me first.”
Sebastian lifted his head and, meet-
ing the speaker's eyes, laughed hoarse-
ly.
At the sound of his unnatural merri-
ment Isabel recoiled as if stung. She
stared at the slave's face in amazement
and then in fury. She stammered, in-
coherently, “You—you have been—
lying!”
“Ch no! The treasure is there, the
greatest treasure in all Cuba, but you
shall never know where it is. I'll see
to that. It was you who sold my girl;
it was you who brought me to this; it
was your hand that whipped me. Well,
I'll tell Don Esteban how you tried to
bribe his secret from me! What do
you think he’ll do then? Eh? You'll
feel the lash on your white back—"
“You fool!” Donna Isabel looked
murder. “T’'ll punish you for this; I'll
make you speak if 1 have to rub your
wounds with salt.”
But Sebastian closed his eyes
wearily. “You can’t make me suffer
more than I have suffered,” he said.
“And now—I curse you. May that
treasure be the death of you. May you
live in torture like mine the rest of
your days; may your beauty turn to
ugliness such that men will spit at
you; may you never know peace ugain
until you die in poverty and want—"
But Donna Isabel, being supersti-
tious, fled with her fingers in her ears;
nor did she undertake to make good
her barbarous threat, realizing oppor-
tunely that it would only serve to be-
tray her desperate intentions and put
her husband further on his guard.
As the sun was sinking beyond the
farther rim of the Yumuri and the val-
ley was beginning to fill with shadows
Esteban Varona rode up the hill. His
temper was more evil than ever, §f that
were possible, for he had drunk gain
in an effort to drown the memory of his
earlier actions. With him were Pablo
Peza, and Mario de Castano, Col. Men-
doza y Linares, old Pedro Miron, the
advocate, and others of less conse-
quence, whom Esteban had gathered
from the Spanish club. The host dis-
mounted and lurched across the court-
yard to Sebastian.
“So, my fine fellow,” he began.
“Have you had enough of rebellion by
this time?”
Sebastian's face was working as he
turned upon his master to say: “I
would be lying if I told you that I am
sorry for what I did. It is you who have
done wrong. Your soul is black with
this crime. Where is my girl?”
“The devil! To hear you talk one
would think you were a free man.” The
planter’s eyes were bleared and he
brandished his riding-whip threaten-
ingly. “I do as I please with my slaves.
| T tolerate no insolence. Your girl?
| Well, she’s in the house of Salvador,
| Don Pablo's cochero, where she be-
longs.”
Sebastian had hung sick and limp
against the grating, but at these words
he suddenly roused. He strained at
his manacles and the bars groaned un-
der his weight. His eyes began to roll,
his lips drew back over his blue gums.
Noting his expression of ferocity, Este-
ban cut at his naked back with the
riding-whip, crying:
“Ho! Not subdued yet, eh?
peed another flogging.”
“Curse you and all that is yours,”
roared the maddened slave. “May you
know the misery you have put upon
me. May you rot for a million years in
hell. May your children’s bodies grow
filthy with disease; may they starve;
may they—"
Sebastian was yelling, though his
voice was hoarse with pain. The lash
drew blood with every blow. Mean-
while, he wrenched and tugged at his
bonds with the fury of a maniac.
“Pablo! Your machete, quick!”
panted the slaveowner. “I'll make an
end of this black fiend, once for all.”
Esteban Varona’s guests had looked
on at the scene with the same mild in-
terest they would display at the whip-
ping of a balky horse; and, now that
the animal threatened to become dan-
gerous, it was in their view quite the
proper thing to put it out of the way.
Don Pablo Peza stepped toward his
mare to draw the machete from its
scabbard. But he did not hand it to
his friend. He heard a shout, and
turned in time to see a wonderful and
a terrible thing.
Sebastian had braced his naked feet
against the wall; he had bowed his
back and bent his massive shoulders
—a back and a pair of shoulders that
You
looked as bony and muscular as those
of an ox—and he was heaving with
every ounce of strength in his enor-
mous body. As Pablo stared he saw
the heavy grating come away from its
anchorage in the solid masonry, as a
shrub is my d from soft ground.
ey wl rr isted; there was
a clank and rattle and clash of metal
upon the flags; and then—Sebastian
turned upon his tormentor, a free man,
save only for the wide iron bracelets
and their connecting chain. He was
quite insane. His face was frightful to
behold; it was apelike in its animal
rage, and he towered above his master
like some fabled creature out of the
African jungle of his forefathers.
Sebastian's fists alone would have
been formidable weapons, but they
were armored and weighted with the
old-fashioned, hand-wrought irons
which Pancho Cueto had locked upon
them. Wrapping the chain in his fin-
gers, the slave leaped at Esteban and
struck, once. The sound of the blow
was sickening, for the whole bony
structure of Esteban Varona’s head
gave way.
There was a horrified cry from the
other white men. Don Pablo Peza ran
forward, shouting. He swung his
machete, but Sebastian met him before
the blow could descend, and they went
down together upon the hard stones.
Again Sebastian smote, with his mas-
sive hands wrapped in the chain and
his wrists encased in steel, and this
time it was as if Don Pablo’s head had
been caught between a hammer and an
anvil. The negro’s strength, exceptional
at all times, was multiplied tenfold; he
had run amuck. When he arose the
machete was in his grasp and Don
Pablo's brains were on his knuckles.
It all happened in far less time than
it takes to tell. The onlookers had not
yet recovered from their first conster-
nation; in fact they were still fumbling
and tugging at whatever weapons they
carried, when Sebastian came toward
them, brandishing the blade on high.
Pedro Miron, the advocate, was the
third to fall. He tried to scramble out
of the negro’s path, but, being an old
man, his limbs were too stiff to serve
him and he went down shrieking.
By now the horses had caught the
scent of hot blood and were plunging
furiously, the clatter of their hoofs
mingling with the blasphemies of the
riders, while Sebastian’s bestial roar-
ing made the commotion even more
hideous.
Esteban’s guests fought as much for
their lives as for vengeance upon the
slayer, for Sebastian was like a gorilla ;
he seemed intent upon killing them all.
He vented his fury upon whatever
| came within his reach; he struck at
men and animals alike, and the shrieks
of wounded horses added to the din.
It was a frightful combat. It seemed
incredible that one man could work
such dreadful havoc in so short a time.
Varona and two of his friends were
dead; two more were badly wounded,
- and a Peruvian stallion lay kicking on
the flagging when Col. Mendoza y Lin-
ares finally managed to get a bullet
home in the black man’s brain.
Those who came Tunning to learn
the cause of the hubbub turned away
sick and pallid, for the paved yard was
a shambles. Pancho Cueto called upon
the slaves to help him, but they slunk
back to their quarters, dumb with ter-
ror and dismay.
All that night people from the town
below came and went and the quinta
resounded to sobs and lamentations,
but of all the relatives of the dead and
wounded, Donna Isabel took her be-
reavement hardest. Strange to say,
she could not be comforted. Now, when
it was too late, she realized that she
had overreached herself, having caused
the death of the only two who knew
the secret of the treasure. She remem-
bered, also, Sebastian’s statement that
even the deeds of patent for the land
were hidden with the rest, where ten
thousand men in ten thousand years
could never find them.
CHAPTER IIL
“The O'Reilly.”
Age and easy living had caused Don
Mario de Castano, the sugar merchant,
to take on weight. He had, in truth,
become so fat that he waddled like a
penguin when he walked; and when he
rode, the springs of his French vic-
toria gave up in despair.
In disposition Don Mario was prac-
tical and unromantic; he boasted that
he had never had an illusion, never an
interest outside of his business. And
yet, on the day this story opeas, this
prosaic personage, in spite of his bulg-
ing waistband and his taut neckband,
in spite of his short breath and his
prickly heat, was in a very whirl of
pleasurable excitement. Don Mario, in
fact, suffered the greatest of all illu-
sions: he was in love, and he believed
himself beloved. The object of his
adoration was little Rosa Varona, the
daughter of his one-time friend Este-
ban. To be sure, he had met Rosa only
twice since her return from her Yankee
schoo}, but twice had been enough;
with prompt decision he had resolved
to do her the honor of making her his
wife.
Notwithstanding the rivulets of per-
spiration that were coursing down
every fold of his flesh, and regardless
of the fact that the body of his victoria
was tipped at a drunken angle, as if
struggling to escape the burdens of his
great weight, Don Mario felt a jaunti-
ness of body and of spirit almost like
that of youth. He saw himself as a
splendid prince riding toward the
humble home of some obscure maiden
whom he nad graciously caosen to De
his mate.
His arrival threw Donna Isabel into
a flutter; the woman could scarcely
contain her curiosity when she came to
meet him, for he was not the sort of
man to inconvenience himself by mere
social visits. Their first formal greet-
ings over, Don Mario surveyed the bare
living room and remarked, lugubri-
ously:
“I see many changes here.”
“No doubt,” the widow agreed.
“Times have been hard since poor Es-
teban’s death.”
“What a terrible calamity that was!
I shudder when I think of it,” said he.
“A shocking affair, truly! and one I
shall never get out of my mind.”
“Shocking, yes. But what do you
think of a rich man, like Esteban, who
would leave his family destitute? Who
would die without revealing the place
where he had stored his treasure?”
Donna Isabel, it was plain, feit her
wrongs keenly ; she spoke with as much
spirit as if her husband had permitted
himself to be killed purely out of spite
toward Her.
“As if it were not enough to lose
that treasure,” the widow continued,
stormily, “the government must free
The Slave Leaped at Esteban, and
Struck, Once.
all our slaves. Tse! Tse! And now
that there is no longer a profit in
sugar, my plantations—"
“No profit in sugar? What are you
saying?” queried the caller. “If your
crops do not pay, then Pancho Cueto
is cheating you. Get rid of him. But
didn’t come here to talk about Este-
ban’s hidden treasure, nor his planta-
tions, nor Pancho Cueto. I came hers
to talk about your step-daughter,
Rosa.”
“So?”
quickly. i
“She interests me. She is more beau-
tiful than the stars.” Don Mario rolled
his eyes toward the high ceiling, which,
like the sky, was tinted a vivid ceru-
lean blue.
“She is now eighteen,” the fat suitor
went on, ecstatically, “and so alto-
gether charming— But why waste
time in pretty speeches? I have de«
cided to marry her.”
“Rosa has a will of her own,” guard-
edly ventured the stepmother.
Don Mario broke out, testily: “Nat-
urally; so have we all. Now let us
speak plainly. You know me. I am a
person of importance. I am rich
enough to afford what I want, and I
pay well. You understand? Well, then,
you are Rosa's guardian and you cam
bend her to your desires.”
“If that were only so!” exclaimed
the woman. “She and Esteban—what
children! What tempers—just like
their father's! They were to be their
father's heirs, you know, and they
blame me for his death, for our pow
erty, and for all the other misfortunes
that have overtaken us. We live like
cats and dogs.”
Don Mario had been drumming his
fat fingers impatiently upon the arm of
his chair. Now he exclaimed:
“Your pardon, senora, but I am just
now very little interested in your do-
mestic relations. What you say about
Rosa only makes me more eager, for I
loathe a sleepy woman. Now tell me,
is she— Has she any—affairs of the
heart?”
“N-no, unless perhaps a flirtation
with that young American, Juan
O'Reilly.” Donna Isabel gave the name
its Spanish pronunciation of “O’'Rall-
ye.”
“Juan O'Reilly? O'Reilly? Oh, yes!
But what has he to offer a woman? He
is little more than a clerk.”
“That is what I tell her.
hasn’t gone far as yet.”
Donna Isabel looked up
Oh, it
The fat—but rich—sugar ‘mer-
chant, or the dashing—but pen-
niless—young American—Rosa
must make her choice between
the two. The next installment
tells which she chose.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Japanese “Fish Sausage.”
The “kamoboko” or “fish sausage”
of the Japanese is described by a con-
sular report as made by chopping the
white meat of any fish, passing through
a colander, and making into a paste,
with a flavoring of sugar, salt, and
rice-brewed alcoholic beverage called
“Mirin.” The paste Is made Into
loaves, steamed on boards an hour and
WESTERN CANADA'S
CROPS
Got an Excellent Start. Big
Yields Now Assured.
Never in the history of Western
Canada did the seed enter the ground
under more favorable conditions. The
weather during the month of April
was perfect for seeding operations,
and from early morning until late at
night the seeders were at work, and
every acre that could be profitably
sown was placed under requisition.
Farmers entered heart and soul into
the campaign of greater production.
There was the time and the opportu-
nity for careful preparation, and as a
consequence with favorable weather
from now on there will be a vastly in-
creased yield. They realized it was a
duty they owed to humanity to produce
all that they could on the land, not
only this year but next as well In
addition to the patriotic aspect, they
are aware that the more they produce
the greater will be their own return
fn dollars and cents.
In many districts wheat seeding was
completed by the 1st of May, after
which date oats and barley on larger
acreages than usual were planted.
As has been said, favorable weather
conditions made possible excellent
seed-bed preparation, and the seed has
gone into the ground in unusually good
shape. The available moisture in the
soil has been added to by rains, which
have not been so heavy, however, as to
interfere long with the work in the
fields. The grain is germinating read-
ily, and on many fields the young green
blades of the cereal are already show-
ing.
An optimistic feeling prevails among
farmers that Western Canada will reap
a record harvest. If the season from
now on is as favorable as it has begun,
these hopes should be realized. Mr.
J. D. McGregor of the Federal Food
Board, who is also an old and success-
ful farmer in Western Canada, assert-
ed a few days ago at Calgary that crop
conditions throughout the Prairie
Provinces were excellent. “Speaking
generally,” he said, “the crops have
never gone into the ground in better
shape than this year, and with an
even break of luck as far as the weath-
er is concerned, there should be an
enormous crop.” His present duties in
connection with the Food Control
Board, taking him in all parts of the
West, Mr. McGregor has exceptional
opportunities of observing conditions
all over the country.—Advertisement.
Change of Name.
“Do you like sauerkraut?”
“Yes. But we insist on changing its
name. We call it denatured cabbage.”
Dandruff and Itching.
To restore dry, falling hair and get rid
of dandruff, rub Cuticura Ointment
into scalp. Next morning shampoo with
Cuticura Soap and hot water. For
free samples address, “Cuticura, Dept.
X, Boston.” At druggists and by mail,
Soap 25, Ointment 25 and 50.—Adv.
MUSTACHE COMES WITH BARS
Or, at Least, That Would Seem to Be
the Idea That Was in the Mind
of Private Jones.
Somewhere in France, they're all
here—or they will be.
Private Bill Jones, late customs in-
spector at San Francisco, walked into
a depot quartermaster’s office, a copy
of Paragraph —, 8. O. —, in his hand.
It was evening, and only a major and
a captain were present.
“What do you want?” asked the cap-
tain.
“Transportation, sir,” replied Pri-
vate Jones, putting forth his best sa-
lute, “this order says I've got to go—"
“Well, I'll be—," said the captain,
Interrupting. “This is the last place
I expected to see you.”
“Well, for the love of Mike!” ex-
claimed Private Jones. “I'd 's’ known
vou In a minute If {t wasn't for that
mustache and the—a—shoulder bars.”
The captain used to be in the im-
migration department in San Francis-
co and he and Private Jones used to
work together.
J Identified.
Knicker—What was the mountain
that brought forth the mouse?
Bocker—It was the Peak of Produc-
tion.
The Chinese alphabet consists of 214
letters.
Oll has been discovered at Bell is-
land, Newfoundland.
DoYou Know
The Fine Flavor
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