’ = © by Doubleday Doran Co., Inc. Hn 4 SYNOPSIS Sam Stanley, wealthy owner of the Desert Moon ranch, tells his bousekeeper, Mary Magin, f that his former wife's twin daughters, Danielle and Gabri. elle, are coming to the ranch to live, their mother being dead and their father, Daniel Canneziano, who had been the cause of Sam's divorcing his wife, in the peni- tentiary Sam has adopted a boy, lohn, now grown to man- hood, ind a girl, Martha, physi- :ally healthy but weak-minded Mrs. Ollie Ricker, Martha's nurse, lives with them. Hubert Hand, a wanderer, and Chadwick Cau- field, John's wartime buddy, an expert ventriloquist, are the oth. er members of the household The girls arrive. Mrs. Magin has cause to believe there is a sin- ister motive in the twins’ pres- ence at the ranch. John becomes engaged to Danielle, Caufield shows a pronounced liking for Gabrielle, CHAPTER IV Bun The Cabin The girls had been on the Desert Moon a little better than six weeks when, one evening, Sam came out into my kitchen where I was setting bread. “Mary,” he began, real solemn for him, “the ancients used to have cities that they called cities of refuge. No matter what a fellow had done, if he could get inside into one of those eitizs, he was safe. Your kitchen al. ways kinda seems lke that to me—a city of refuge.” “Lands, Sam,” 1 sald, “what have you been up to that you are heading this safety first movement?” “l haven't been ap to anything,” Sam answered, “and | don’t aim to be. But, Mary, some time ago you came to me with some suspicions. I laughed them off. I am not laughing now. Tm worried. Queer things are going on around here. What I want to know, nov is what do you know?” “Nothing. What do you know?” “Nothing.” “What do you suspect, then, Sam?” “Nothing. What do you?” “Nothing.” That, I see now, wouldn’t have been a bad place for us both to laugh. Neither of us did. “Have you any idea,” Sam ques- tioned, “why the girls go prowling all over the place, afoot and horseback, daytimes, and nighttimes, too, when they should be in their beds?” “Well, all 1 know is just what I've known all along. They are hunting for something.” “Sure they are hunting for some- thing. But what?” : “l don’t know. But whatever ft Is, they are going to use it to get revenge, to injure maliciously somebody.” “Revenge, h—I11"” Sawn said. “Have it your own way. Only 1 happened one night to hear Gaby say to Danny that they had come to this ranch for the purpose of revenge.” “Revenge, h—I11" Sam repeated b!m. self. “Unless they are sore at me about Canneziano. What else did they say, when you happened to overhear this revenge remark?” If he was ready, at last, to listen, 1 was more than ready to tell what little 1 knew. | told; even to confess ing about hiding in the clothes closet. “Well, well.” he drawled, when | bad finished my story, “we are prob. ahly making a8 mountain out of a molehill. | wouldn't go pussy-footing around after them, any more, if | were you, Mary. There's a screw loose somewhere. that's sure; but ft 18 not in the Desert Moon's machinery We've got nothing on our consciences. We don’t need to worry.” Don’t need to worry! Sam and |, sitting in that peaceful kitchen, talk. ing se smart and frivolous, and de ciding that we did no! need to worry is a memory 1 could well be shed of We didn’t need to worry a bit more than if I'd used arsenic in my covered pan of bread; not a bit more than it there Pad heen a den of rattlesnakes in the cupboard under the sink, or gasoline instead of water in the tans en the hack of the stove. That is how safe and peaceful we really were. at that minute, If we had had sense enough to know it. When | realize that four weeks from that very eve ming, three people— But 1 guess it would be better to tell things straight along, as they hap pened It seems to me a good hook cannot be hurried, any more than a good cake ean “Mix and sift the dry ingredients,” is the way all recipes for cakes begin. . * . . ° . ® For hree days, beginning with the Fourth of July, t"ere wus to he a big celebration and rodeo at Telko Sam suggested at noon on the sec ond of July while we were at dinner that maybe all of us would tike to go: all, that is. except Martha and him self. ('elehrations were never good for Martha I spoke right up and said to count me out. | know the deserts in July But the boys were enthusinstic abom it, and Danny was interested. (Gaby eomiug in lute, greeted the idea with IEEE LEER RRR RRARR EE NEARER NRRL The Desert Moon Mystery by KAY CLEAVER STRAHAN the same enthusiasm with which a woman greets moths in the clothes closet. “Whence the crave for a Fourth of July celebration?” she asked. “We have never seen a rodeo,” Dan- ay answered. “Go, by all means,” Gaby said. “Buy pink lemonade. March in the parade. Ride in the Liberty car. Mrs. Magin would be stunning as the god- dess of Liberty, with—" ‘Don’t let my stunningness stop anything,” 1 said. “I am not going.” “We'll think it over,” Danny said. “It would be a long, hot ride. Prob ably we should all have a pleasanter time, right here at home.” But there was something in the way she had said it, too quickly in an- swer to a look from Gaby, that made me think there was more to her back- ing out of the plan than had appeared on the surface. Gaby nad just begun her dinner. The rest of us had finished; so, ac- cording to our custom, we excused ourselves and went our ways. Chad tried to stay with Gaby, but Martha fussed and insisted that he come with her. I bad a sure feeling that Danny would return, and that she and Gaby would have something to say to each other. I went into the kitchen, stepped back into the pass-pantry, and opened the pass-window a crack. Just as I opened the window I heard John say, “I thought Danny was in here.” “No,” Gaby said. “But won't you come in and talk to me?” “What about?” “About—this.” I dared not peek, so I did not know what she meant until she said, “Why won't you kiss me?” “Shall I say, I don’t want to pick flowers in Hubert Hand's yard?” “I hate you!” “Don’t be sore at me, Gaby,” John said. “But I'm telling you, that's a lot nearer the truth than—than what you usually say.” John was one of the poorest talk- ers ever heard. One of those strong, silent men supposed to abound in the West, and who are likewise supposed to make every word that they say count. If John's did, they counted backwards. “My dear, haven't 1 proven over and over again that I love you? In every way. | have made myself ridiculous, here, because I haven't been able to conceal my feelings for you.” “I think,” John said, “that most of that stuff you pull is just to spite Danny. It doesn’t spite her, though. She knows she's the only girl in the world for me. [I wish you'd cut it out—all of that, Gabby. Won't you, and just be good friends?” “You'd not want me for an enemy, would you?” “Getting at anything, going any place, Gaby?” “Perhaps. If Danny should hear that you have made love to me—" “lI have never made love to you. It would be your word against mine. 1 think Danny would take mine, if it came to a showdown. Listen here, child; don’t you try to make trouble between Danny and me.” “Meaning?” “Nothing. Except that it wouldn't be healthy for anyone who tried it.” “Boo-0oo! Dangerous Dan McGrew stuff? Out where men are men? Killer loose tonight—all that, eh, Johnnie?” A door opened. “John,” came in Danny's voice, “uncle is looking every- where for you.” “What,” Dammy questioned, when the door had closed behind John, “made you both look so angry, just now ?” “Never mind. Are you going to that fools’ celebration, with only a day or two left, now?” “1 suppose not, if yon don’t want me to. I'd love going. | know there is no use in staying here.” “In other words, you would sacrifice my future for a rodeo? 1 more than half believe that vou know—" “What possible object could | have?” “Many, my dear. Very many hough 1 think that getting rid of me would outweigh the others. Listen to me, Danielle Cunneziano, if 1 thought that you were keeping this from me. in order to bury me alive in this God- forsaken hole, and force me to watch you and John—" “Gaby I” “I've been a fool! Why can't 1 learn to take into consideration your d—n moralities? Understand this Dan. Don’t fancy for one instant that failure 18 going to keep me here. Did you think, with a weapon like that in my nands, that I'd stand for anything less than a fifty fifty propesition? Our original plan would have been hetter —ensier, simpler But I'll have my share out of this, anyway. So, if you do know-—" “Gaby."l don't know. Pl] swear that 1 don’t. How could 17 But surely you wouldn’t—wouldn't attempt—" “That is for you to say. darling.” Darling, as she said it then, was as wicked a word as | had ever lis tened to. “For me to say?’ R WNU Service SULT nnn “Give John to me. [@'ve changed my mind. If you'll do that, I'll stay right here, and settle down, and do an imi tation of a moral, model wife that would satisfy even you.” “Gaby, you speak as if John were a child's toy, to be passed about. I couldn't give him to you, if I were willing to.” “You could, and you know It. You won't. So, that’s that. But keep your righteous fingers out of my life; stop your d—n preaching, and meddling. 1 am going to the cabin now. You would better come with me.” “We've searched that cabin a thou- sand times.” “All the same, it 1s the one logical place; far removed, and under cover.” The cabin is the one Sam built to live in when he first came to the val- ley. It is up Boulder creek, about half a mile from the ranchhouse, Sam has kept it in repair, inside and out; owing, 1 think, to sentimental memories, though he declares it 1s be- cause he dislikes wreckage on the place. When John and Martha were little things, Sam used to hide their Christmas presents up there, under the shelf in the kitchen. The shelf, ubout three feet wide, is built across one end of the kitchen. It served Sam for a table, pantry, and sink. Being a man, he built it right handily, like a chest, so that the en- tire top of it had to be raised to get to the storage place underneath. There was no secret about it. All any- one had to do, was to move everything off the top of it, and lift the lid. But I had read how the hardest problems for detectives always turned out to be something that had been too simple to notice; sc my plan was to go up there and raise the lid. On my way, I met the girls coming home, I imagined that they looked at me with suspicion. 1 passed a remark about the sweet-smelling clover hay, and hurried right along. Half an hour later, when 1 was ex- pecting instant death at any minute, I thought about that sweet clover smell, and how unappreciative 1 have been of it, and of the blue sky and fresh air, and of the green things, lighted yellow with sunshine, and 1 took a vow that, if 1 ever did get a chance to enjoy them again, 1 would spend the remainder of my life in so doing, and in being grateful to the Creator of them. In the cabin, I went at once to the kitchen; and, removing fish-baskets, fly-books, and reels from the shelf, lifted it back. 1 am sure that I had expected to find it empty. What 1 had not ex- pected to find, and what I certainly had never hoped to find, was what was there: any number of neatly wrapped packages, addressed to Mr. Sam Stanley, sent by express, and labeled, variously, “Danger.” “Explo- sives.” “Handle with Care.” It did not take any common sense to know, straight off, that, sent to him or not, Sam was not mixed up in any business that had to do with explo sives, bombs, and Bolshevism. It was easy enough to remember, then, that Sam had not been to Rattail for the past ten days; that Hubert Hand had been making the trips down for the mail, expressage, and supplies. Just as he came into my mind, I heard his voice.- It was a startling coincidence; but I need a better ex- THE PATTON COURIER cuse than that, for surely ne mortal ever did a more foolish thing than | did then. 1 climbed into that chest, along with those packages, and low- ered the lid down over me, If | had any Idea, 1 suppose it must have heen a desire not to let him know that | had discovered his secret—his and Gaby’s together, undoubtediy—but 1 can’t remember having any thought at all until, just as the lid ‘osed, 1 remembered the sad poem about the bride and the mistletoe chest. Then &¢ heard, through the thin boards, Hubert Hand, talking to some one, come Into the kitchen. I chose death by suffocation or combustion. “My dear woman,” were the first words | hear¢ from him, “yoo may set your mind at rest. | am not going to marry the girl. 1 am not a marrying man, as you know; and, if 1 were, she wouldn’t have me,” “You leave her alone, then. stand me. Leave her alone.” If I believed my ears, that was Mrs. Ricker's voice; that was Mrs. Under- I Am Sure That | Had Expected to Find It Empty. Ricker, not only talking, but talking like that to Hubert Hand. “You flatter me,” he said. “Jeal- ous, still, after all these years? | told you that I wouldn't marry her, and that she wouldn't have me, if 1 were willing to.” “Wouldn't she, though? Wouldn't she? She is mad about you. She can't look at you without love :n her eyes, nor speak to you without love in her voice. She tries to hide it; but she can’t hide it from me. I know, She loves you.” I am not sure whether I read it, or whether 1 figured it out for myself; but 1 do know it is a fact that no woman ever accuses another woman of being in love with a man unless she could imagine being in love with him herself. “As to that,” Hubert Hand said, “what possible difference would it make to you, Ollie?” “Only that I would kill her, and you, too, before I would let her have you.” “Easy on, there, my girl. Your last attempt at murder—at least 1 hope that was your last attempt, was not, you may recall, very successful.” “lI would be successful another time.” I kept quiet; very quiet. Surround- ed, in there by explosives, and out there by people who talked of murder as calmly and as comfortably as if they were discussing moss-roses, very quiet did not seem half quiet enough. They went into the other room of the cabin and stayed there for a few minutes. I could not hear what they FIFI INK IR INH HHA IIHR HHI HH HHH HH HTH Feign Death to Escape Its Actual Visitation Nature has provided the majority of animals with some means of self. preservation. The bold overcome the enemy by fighting “tooth and claw”; the timid escape by rapid flight. Some creatures take shelter behind a plat. ing of armor; others rely mainly upon their protective coloration, Some in ject deadly poisons; others emit nau- seating fluids and even electric shocks. But probably the most remarkable of all methads of evading the enemy is that of shamming death; and one need not necessarily travel beyond the confines of one's own garden for proof of the fact that some creatures do sham death, for quite a number of caterpillars, spiders, toads and snakes are addicted to the habit, says M. D. D. in the Times of India Illus trated Weekly. It is a well-known fact that cer tain birds will pretend to be lume or wonnded in the wing in order to draw away Intruders from the vicinity of Had Few Nerves in Teeth Study of the teeth of the saber tooth cats and of the giant wolves that lived and died in prehistoric times, has shown why these animals and their descendants knew no such things as toothache. Examination of teeth found in as phalt pits in California revealed that in every case. the teeth of an adult of the species had only a scanty sup ply of nerves. As the animal grew up. the root canal, which is the main route for the nerves into the pulp chamber of the tooth, became eom paratively shut off.—I’opular Mechan «cs Magazine, ‘their eggs or young. The American ground dove, the ruffled grouse, the green plover and the wild duck are among those that practice this art of deception. Among birds that actually sham death may be mentioned the land rail and the water rail, So Simple Mrs. Suburbs, who was absorbed in a romance of the Seventeenth century, suddenly looked up at her hushand. “George,” she remarked, “listen to this: ‘By my halidom, exclaimed Sir Percival, ‘it ig past the hour of 120 Now, what is a halidom, George?” “What do you suppose it is?” he re sponded. “Doesn't the context tel you? Sir What’s-his-name said it was past 12 by his halidom, didn't he? Well, I should have thought anybody could have seen that halidom was the make of his wateh.” Sight Influences Handwriting If the average handwriting of a person with normal vision ig taken as a standard, that of the individual suf fering from nearsightedness will he found to he much smaller and that of the farsighted individual much larger, The nearsizhted person does not realize that his writing is small, for he sees it enlarged. and the farsighted person does not know that he writes large. for his eyes reduce the image for him, Pointer for Executives It you encountered no difficulties. the offic® hoy could tuke your place.— B. C. Forbes, were saying, but I did not budge an inch, After 1 heard them passing the window, and was sure that they had left the cabin, I remained, very quiet, in the chest for about five minutes longer before climbing out of it. I was progressing toward home, shivering in every bone, limping, since both my legs had gone to sleep, when Sam, riding his had-tempered bronco named Wishbone, came up behind me and dismounted. “Corns bad, Mary?” he questioned. “Want to climb up on Wishbone and have me lead him?" “When | go to meet death,” | told him, *1 sha'n’t go on the back of a nasty-tempered bronco. Considering that everyone on the Desert Moon is, at this minute, in mortal danger of their lives, all your lighthearted jest. ting seems pretty much out of place.” I told him, then, about the packiges of explosives hiillden under the shelf. I had not told him about my climbing in with them; so I was in no way pre- pared for his actions. He stopped. He dropped Wishhone's bridle. He put both his hands on his stomach and leaned over and burst Into uproarious laughter. “Ho-ho-ho.” it rolled out, seeming to fill the entire valley. “Fireworks,” he gasped. “lI got i them for Martha. Going to surprise | her on the Fourth. Sent for them months ago. Hid them up there. Ho-ho-ho! I told you to stop pussy- footing around, Mary. Ho-ho-ho! ‘Do not look for wrong and evil, you will find them if you do—'" With as much dignity as a heavy woman, with both of her legs asleep, could muster, I turnea and left him. His words and his actions had cer- tainly given me one decision. From this time on, I would tell Sam Stanley nothing. When 1 got back to the house, John was driving up the road in the sedan. He had been to Rattail for supplies and for the mail. He tossed the mail- bag out to me and drove around to the kitchen door to unload. There was a letter for Gaby, postmarked France. About a month before this, Gaby had received another letter that was a duplicate of this one; the same gray paper, the same sprawling handwrit- ing. Instead of taking it indifferently, | as she did other letters, and reading | it wherever she happened to be, she | had snatched it out of my hand and | had run off to her room. All that | evening she had seeme. to be preve- | cupied, and worried. Sending only | two letters in close to two months, it | seemed to me that whoever had writ- | ten them did not write unless he or she had something of importance to say. I was still puzzling over it, when { Gaby came into the room. | Sure enough, she snatched it out of | my hands, just as she had done with | the other letter, and ran straight up- | stairs with it, { When John and Danny came in, a! few minntes later, | went upstairs. | Habit stopped me at Gaby's door for | a minute, with my ear to the keyhole. | Faintly, sounds don’t come plainly | through our thick doors, I heard the | portable typewriter that she brought ! | with her when she came to the ranch, | click, clicking away. | I was tuckered and tired. So, after | telephoning some instructions to the | kitchen, I took plenty of time to tidy | myself up. I dawdled in my bath, ard 1 cut my corns, and rubbed hair tonic | into my scalp. But, when on my way | downstairs again, I stopped for a sec | ond at Gaby’s door, the typewriter was | still going. There was nothing to be made out of it, so I went along. It | was fortunate that I did, because, be fore I had reached the top of the stairway, Gaby’s door flung open and she called to me, with something in her voice that made me shake in my shoes. 1 turned and looked at her. Hei face wore an expression that was not human; an expression that would have made any decent woman do as I did, and turn her eyes quickly away “Tell Danny to come up here,” she sald. I hurried off downstairs, and de livered the message to Danny whe wus with John In the living room. “What's the matter, Mary?’ Johr questioned, when Danny had gone up stairs. “You look as if you had seer a ghost.” “I think,” I answered, “that I haw —the ghost of Sin.” “Doggone that girl,” he said. * wish she were in Jericho.” “Gaby, you mean?” “You're darn right. She's causing all the trouble around here.” “What trouble?” I asked, just for s feeler. “l don’t know—exactly. She keeps Danny miserable. But that isn't it, o not all of it. Don’t you seem to fee! trouble around here, all the time? | thought everyone did. I do, Gosh knows.” “1 know,” 1 said. “1 feel it, too. | think Sam does, though he won't alto gether admit it. Just the same, John there iesn’'t a thing we can put our fingers on, is there?” “1 suppose not. Sometimes, though, when I see Danny looking as she looked when she went upstairs just now, I feel as if it would be a good thing If somebody would put their fingers around that vixen’s throat.” “John,” 1 spoke sharply to him, “don’t say things like that. You don't mean it. It is wrong to say it.” [ was sure that he did rot mean it. 1 was sure that only the voice of one of hia rare ugly moods had spoken, and that the wicked thought had died with the wicked words. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers