Genre Western. Page - 11

ing thething to pass by his own dogged efforts. Men fell into the habit ofcalling him Luck, and they forgot that he had any other name; so thereyou have it, straight and easily understandable.

As luck would have it, then,--and no pun intended, please,--he foundhimself en route to Dry Lake without any trouble at all; a mere matter ofone change of trains and very close connections, the conductor told him.So Luck went out and found a chair on the observation platform, and gavehimself up to his cigar and to contemplation of the country they weregliding through. What he would find at Dry Lake to make the stop worthhis while did not worry him; he left that to the future and to the godChance whom he professed to serve. He was doing his part; he was goingthere to find out what the place held for him. If it held nothing but ahalf dozen ex-cow-punchers hopelessly tamed and turned farmers, why,there would probably be a train to carry him further in his quest. Hewould drop down into Wyoming and Arizona a

get killed, in advance, you will learn the same thing in the same way I learned it. Where are your blamed batteries?"

"Bill, you are all right."

"I am, am I?"

"First help me enter these way-bills and check up the express packages so I can deliver them to this mob."

"My business isn't checking up express; but I like you, young fellow, so, go ahead. Only you talk too much."

"Just a moment!"

At these words coming from the other end of the office, the lineman and the operator looked around. The military-looking man and his companion had entered the room unobserved and stood at the counter listening to the colloquy between the Eastern boy and the plainsman--for neither of the two were more than boys. Dancing saluted the new-comers. "It's Colonel Stanley and Bob Scott," he exclaimed.

Bucks walked forward. Stanley handed him a message. "You are the night operator? Here is a despatch for General Park. Get it out for me right away, will you?"

Dancing came forwar

it too mooch col' in wintaire, but, voila! Better A'm lak I freeze l'il bit as burn oop!"

The Texan laughed. "I don't blame you none. I never be'n down to Yuma but they tell me it's hell on wheels. Go ahead an' deal, Pedro."

"Pedro, non! Ma moder she nam' Moon Eye, an' ma fader she Cross-Cut Lajune. Derefor', A'm Batiste Xavier Jean Jacques de Beaumont Lajune."

The bottle thumped upon the table top.

"What the hell is that, a name or a song?"

"Me, das ma nam'--A'm call Batiste Xavier Jean----"

"Hold on there! If your ma or pa, or whichever one done the namin' didn't have no expurgated dictionary handy mebbe they ain't to blame--but from now on, between you an' me, you're Bat. That's name enough, an' the John Jack Judas Iscariot an' General Jackson part goes in the discards. An' bein' as this here is only a two-handed game, the discards is dead---- See?"

At the end of an hour the half-breed watched with a grin as the Texan raked in a huge pile o

ry!glory!" he continued, with fluent vacuity and wandering, dull,observant eyes.

"But if I had a little more practice in class, Brother Silas, moreeducation?"

"The letter killeth," interrupted Brother Silas. Here hiswandering eyes took dull cognizance of two female faces peeringthrough the opening of the tent. "No, yer mishun, Brother Gideon,is to seek Him in the by-ways, in the wilderness,--where the foxeshev holes and the ravens hev their young,--but not in the Templesof the people. Wot sez Sister Parsons?"

One of the female faces detached itself from the tent flaps, whichit nearly resembled in color, and brought forward an angular figureclothed in faded fustian that had taken the various shades andodors of household service.

"Brother Silas speaks well," said Sister Parsons, with stridulousfluency. "It's fore-ordained. Fore-ordinashun is better norordinashun, saith the Lord. He shall go forth, turnin' neither tothe right hand nor the left hand, and seek Him among the losttri

of him was as near murder as Wearycould come. Glory had been belabored with worse things than hatsduring his eventful career; he laid back his ears, shut his eyes tightand took it meekly.

There came a gasping gurgle from the hammock, and Weary's hand stoppedin mid-air. The girl's head was burrowed in a pillow and her slipperstapped the floor while she laughed and laughed.

Weary delivered a parting whack, put on his hat and looked at heruncertainly; grinned sheepishly when the humor of the thing came to himslowly, and finally sat down upon the porch steps and laughed with her.

"Oh, gee! It was too funny," gasped the girl, sitting up and wipingher eyes.

Weary gasped also, though it was a small matter--a common little wordof three letters. In all the messages sent him by the schoolma'am, itwas the precise, school-grammar wording of them which had irritated himmost and impressed him insensibly with the belief that she was too primto be quite human. The Happy Family had felt all along

e foreman.

"Brought my tooth-brush," said Lin, showing it in the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt.

"Going to Denver?"

"Why, maybe."

"Take in San Francisco?"

"Sounds slick."

"Made any plans?"

"Gosh, no!"

"Don't want anything on your brain?"

"Nothin' except my hat, I guess," said Lin, and broke into cheerful song:

"'Twas a nasty baby anyhow, And it only died to spite us; 'Twas afflicted with the cerebrow Spinal meningitis!'"

They wound up out of the magic valley of Wind River, through the bastioned gullies and the gnome-like mystery of dry water-courses, upward and up to the level of the huge sage-brush plain above. Behind lay the deep valley they had climbed from, mighty, expanding, its trees like bushes, its cattle like pebbles, its opposite side towering also to the edge of this upper plain. There it lay, another world. One step farther away from its rim, and the two edges of the plain had flowed together over it like a closing se

e than any other of the owner's treasures. It was, curiously enough, to this little heap of literature that Wid Gardner presently turned.

Forgetful of the hour and of his waiting cows, he sat down, a copy in his hands, his face taking on a new sort of light as he read. At times, as lone men will, he broke out into audible soliloquy. Now and again his hand slapped his knee, his eye kindled, he grinned. The pages were ill-printed, showing many paragraphs, apparently of advertising nature, in fine type, sometimes marked with display lines.

Wid turned page after page, grunting as he did so, until at last he tossed the magazine upon the top of the box and so went about his evening chores. Thus the title of the publication was left showing to any observer. The headline was done in large black letters, advising all who might have read that this was a copy of the magazine known as Hearts Aflame.

Curiously enough, on the front page the headline of a certain advertisement showed plainly. I

one a lot of squirmin'. Been followin' us--you reckon?"

They descended the slope of the hill, still talking. Evidently,Sanderson's silence had completely convinced them that they had killedhim.

But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock nearSanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson's rifle projectingfrom between the two rocks.

For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene theman discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time hemissed the target.

Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fellwithout a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for aninstant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson'sbullet had come, he raised his rifle.

Sanderson's weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spunviolently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.

Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knewwhere his bullets had gone, and he took no precaut

ew faces, many faces, long rows of faces, some pale, some red, some laughing, some horrified, some shouting, some swearing--a long row of faces that swept through the smoke, following a line of steel--a line of steel that flickered, waved, and dipped.

CHAPTER III

THE VICTORY

The bandmaster marshalled his music at the head of the column of occupation which was to march into Louisburg. The game had been admirably played. The victory was complete. There was no need to occupy the trenches, for those who lay in them or near them would never rally for another battle. The troops fell back behind the wood through which they had advanced on the preceding day. They were to form upon the road which had been the key of the advance, and then to march, horse and foot in column, into Louisburg, the place of honour at the head being given to those who had made the final charge to the last trench and through the abattis. Gorged with what it had eaten, the dusty serpent was now