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TH E CHAPTER I. THE SECOND GENERATION IS RE MOVED. When Daniel J. Bines died of apo plexy in his private care at Kaslo Junction no one knew just where to reach either his old father or his young son with the news of his death. Somewhere up the eastern slope of the Sierras the old man would be leading, as he had long chosen to lead each summer, the lonely life of a prospect or The young man, two years out of Harvard, and but recently back from an extended European tour, was at some point on the North Atlantic coast, beginning the season's pursuit of happiness as he listed. Only a land so young that almost the present dwellers therein have made it might we find individualities which so decisively failed to blend. So little congruous was the family of Bines in root, branch and blossom, mat it might, indeed, be taken to picture an epic of western life as the romancer would tell it. First of the line stands the figure of Peter Bines, the pioneer, contemporary with the stirring days of Fremont, of Ki Carson, of Harney and Bridger the fearless strivers toward an ever-receding west, fascin ating for its untried dangers as for its fabled wealththe sturdy, grave men who fought and toiled and hoped and realized in varying measure, but who led in sober truth a life such as the colors of no taleteller shall ever be high enough to reproduce. Next came Daniel J. Bines, a type of the builder and organizer who fol lowed the trail blazed by the earlier pioneer the genius who finding the magic realm opened, forthwith became its exploiter to its vast renown and his own large profit, coining its wealth, of minerals, lumber, cattle and grain, and adventurously building the rail-* roads that must always be had to drain a new land of savagery. Nor would there be wanting a third a figure of this present day, contain ing, in potency at least, the stanch, qualities of his two rugged forbears the venturesome spirit that set his rest less grandsire to roving westward, the power to group and coordinate, to "think three moves ahead" which had made his father a man of affairs, and, further, he had something modern of his own that neither of the others possessed, and yet which came as the just irmt of the parent vine: a dis position perhaps a bit less strenuous, turning back to the risen rather than forward to the setting sun a tendency to rest a htle from the toil and tu mult, to cultivate some graces subtler than those of adventure and commer cialism, to make the most of what had been done rather than strain to the doing of needless more to live, in short, like a philosopher and a gentle man who has more golden dollars a year than either philosophers or gen tlemen are wont to enjoy. And now the central figure had gone suddenly at the age of 52, after the way of certain men who are quick, anient and generous in their living. From his luxurious private car, lying on the side-track at the dreary little station, Toler, private secretary to the millionaire, had telegraphed to the headquarters of one important 1 ail way company the death of its presi dent, and to various mining, milling and lumbering companies the death of their president, vice president or man aging director, as the case might be. For the widow and only daughter word of the calamity had gone to a moun tain resort not far trom the family home at Montana City. There promised to be delay in reach ing the other two. The son would early read the news, Toler decided, un less perchance he were off at sea, since the death of a figure like Bines would be told every daily newspaper in the country. telegraphed, however, to the young man's Ne York apart ments and to a Newport address, on the chance of finding him. Locating old Peter Iwnes at this sea son of the year was a feat never light ly to be undertaken, nor for any trivial end It being now the 10th of June, it co 1 be known with certainty only that i i one of four states he was prcn ling through some wooded canyon, toiling over a windy pass, or scaling a mountain sheerly, in his ancient and best loved sport of prospecting. Know ing his habits, the rashest guesser would not have attempted to say more defi- uely where the old man might be. The most promising plan Toler could devise was to wire the superintendent of the "One Girl" mine at Skiplap. The elder Bines, he knew, had passed through Skiplap about June 1. and had left perhaps, some inkling of his pro pose route if it chanced, indeed, that he had taken the trouble to propose one. Pangburn the mine superintendent, on receipt of the news, dispatched five men on the search in as many differ ent directions The old man was now 74 and Pangburn had noted when last the* met that he appeared to be some what less agile and vigorous than he had been 20 years before from which it was fair to reason that he might be playing his solitary ga^ie at a leisure ly pace, and would have tramped no great distance in the ten days he had been gone. The searchers, therefore, A TALE OF THE THIRD GENERATION By HARRY LEON WILSON A* Copyright, by Lothrop Publishing Company. were directed to beat up the near-by country. To Billy Brue was allotted the easiest as being the most probabla route. was to follow up Paddle creek to Four Forks, thence over the Bitter Root trail to Eden, on to Oro Fino, and up over Little Pass to Hell andgone. was to proceed slowly, to be alert for signs along the way, and to make inquiries of all he met. "You're likely to get track of Uncle Peter," said Pangburn, "over along the west side of Horseback Ridge, just be yond Eden. When he pulled out he was talking about some likely floatrock he'd picked up over that way last sum mer. You'd ought to make that by to-morrow, seeing you've got a good horse and the trail's been mended this spring. Now you spread yourself out, Billy, and when you get on to the Ridge make a special look all around there." Besides these directions and the tele gram from Toler, Billy Brue took with him a copy of the Skiplap Weekly Ledge, damp from the press and con taining the death notice of Daniel J. Bines, a notice sent out by the News Association, which Billy Brue read with interest as he started up the trail. The item concluded thus: "The joung and beautiful Mrs Bines, who had been accompanying her husband on his trip of inspection over the Sierra Northern, is prostrated with grief at the shock of his sudden death Billy Brue mastered this piece of in telligence after six readings, but he refrained from comment, beyond thank ing God, in thought, that he could mind his own business under excessive provocation to do otherwise. con sidered it no meddling, however, to remember that Mrs. Daniel J. Bines, widow of his late employer, could ap pear neither young nor beautiful to the most sanguine of newsgatherers nor to remember that he happened to know she had not accompanied her husband on his last trip of inspection over the Kaslo division of the Sierra Northern railway. CHAPTER II. BILLY BRUE FINDS HIS MAN Each spring old Peter Bines grew restive and raw like an unbroken colt. And when the distant mountain peaks began to swim in the summer haze, and the little rushing rivers sang to him, pleading that he come once more to follow them up, he became uncon trollable. Every year at this time he alleged, with a show of irritation, that his health was being sapped by the pernicious indulgence of sleeping on a bed inside a house. alleged, fur ther, that stocks and bonds were but shadows of wealth, that the old mines might any day become exhausted, and that security for the future lay only in having one member of the family, at least, looking up new pay rock against the ever possible time of adversity. And so he loitered through the moun tains, resting here, climbing there, making always a shrewd, close reading of the rocks. It was thus Billy Brue found him at the end of his second day's search. A little off the trail, at the entrance to a pocket of the canyon, he towered erect to peer down when he heard the noise of the messenger's ascent. Billy Brue, riding up the trail, halted, nodded, and was silent. The old man returned his salutation as briefly. These things by men who stay much alone come to be managed with verbal economy. They would talk presently, but greetings were awkward. Billy Brue took one foot from its stirrup and turned in his saddle, pull ing the leg up to a restful position. Then he spat, musingly, and looKed back down the canyon aimlessly, throwing his eyes from side to side where the gray granite ledges showed through the tall spruce and pine trees. But the old man knew he had been sent for. "Well, Billy Brue, what's doin'?" Billy Brue squirmed in the saddle, spat again, as with sudden resolve, and said: "WhyuhDan'l J.he's dead." The old man repeated the words, dazedly. "Dan'l J.he's dead why, who else is dead, too?" Billy Brue's emphasis, cunningly con trived by him to avoid giving prom inence to the word "dead," had sug gested this inquiry in the first mo ment of stupefaction. "Nobody else deadjest Dan'l J. he's dead." "Jest Dan'l J.my boymy boy Dan'l dead!" His mighty shape was stricken witn a curious rigidity, erected there as if it were a part of the mountain, flung up of old from the earth's inner trag edy, confounded, desolate, ancient. Billy Brue turned from the stony interrogation of his eyes and took a few steps away, waiting. A little wind sprang up among the higher trees, the moments passed, and still the great figure stood transfixed in its curious silence. The leathers creaked as the horse turned. Th messenger, with an air of surveying the canyon, stole an anxious glance at the old face. Th sorrowful old eyes were fixed on things that were not they looked vaguely as if in search. "Dan'l!" he said. It was not a cry there was nothing plaintive in it. It was only the old man calling his son David calling upon Absalom. Then there was a change. came sternly forward. "Who killed my boy?" "Nobody, Uncle Peter 'twas a stroke. He was goin' over the line, and they'd laid out at Kaslo fer a day so's Dan'l J. could see about a spur the 'Lucky Cuss' people wantedand maybe it was the climbin' brought it on." The old man looked his years. A he came nearer Billy Brue saw tears tremble in his eyes and roll unnoted down his cheeks. Ye his voice was unbroken and he was indeed, uncon scious of the tears. "I was afraid of that lived too high. et too much and he drank too much and was too softwas Dan'l too soft" The old voice trembled a bit and he stopped to look aside into the little pocket he had been exploring Billy Brue looked back down the canyon, where the swift stream brawled itsell into white foam far below. "He wouldn't use his legs I prodded him about it constant" He stoppea again to brace himself against the shock. Billy Brue still looked away. "I told him high altitudes and high livin* would do any man" Again he was silent. "But all he'd ever say was that times had changed since my day, and I wasn't to mind him." had himself better in hand now. "Why, I nursed that boy when he was a dear, funny little red baby with big round eyes rollin' around to take notice he took notice awful quick fur a baby. Oh, my! Oh, dear! Dan'l!" Again he stopped. "And it don't seem more'a yester day that I was a-teachi' him to throw the diamond hitch he could throw the diamond hitch with his eyes shut I reckon by the time he was nine or ten. He had his faults, but they didn't hurt him none Dan'l J. was a man, now" halted once more. "The dead millionaire," began Billy Brue, reading from the obituary in the Skiplap Weekly Ledge, "was in his fifty-second year. Genial, generous to a fault, quick to resent a wrong, but unfailing in his loyalty to a friend, a man of large ideas, with a genius for large operations, he was the type of indefatigable enterprise that has build ed this western empire in a wilderness and given rich sustenance and luxur ious homes to millions of prosperous, happy American citizens. Peace to his 'WHAT'S DOIN'?" ashes' And a safe trip to his immor tal soul over the one-way trail!" "Yes, yesit's Dan'l J. fur sure they got my boy Dan'l that time. Is that all it says, Billy? Anyone with him?" "Why, this here dispatch is signed by young Tolerthat's his confidential man.'* "Nobody else?" The old man was peering at him sharply from under the gray protrud ing brows. "Well, if you must know, Uncle Peter, this is what the notice says that come by wire to the Ledge office," and he read doggedly: "The oun and beautiful Mrs Bines, who had been accompany mg her husband on his trip of inspection over the Sierra Northern, is prostrated with grief at the shock of his sudden death The old man became for the first time conscious of the tears in his eyes, and, pulling down one of the blue woolen shirt sleeves, wiped his wet cheeks. Th slow, painful blush of age crept up across the iron strength of his face, and passed. looked away as he spoke. "I knew it I knew that. My Dan'l was like all that 'Frisco bunch. They get tangled with women sooner or later. I taxed Dan'l with it. I spleened against it and let him know it. Bu he was a man and his own masterif you can rightly call a man his own master that does them things. Do you know what-fur woman this one was, Billy?" "Well, last time Dan'l J. was up to Skiplap, there was a swell party on the carkind of a coppery-lookin' blonde. Allie Ash, the brakeman on No. 4, he tells me she used to be in Spokane, and now she'd got her hooks on to some minin' property up in the Coeur d'Alene. Course, this mightn't be the one." The old man had ceased to listen. He was aroused to the need of action. "Get movin', Billy! W can get down to Eden to-night we'll have the moon fur two hours on the trail soon's the sun's gone. I can get 'em to drive me over to Skiplap first thing to-mor row, and I can have 'em make me up a train there fur Montana City Was he" THE PRINCETON TJ^ION: THTJBSDJLif, JUNE 21, 1906. ^-f^^^^^W^^^^^^r^m^^ "Dan'l J. has been took homethe noozepaper says." They turned back down the trail, tha old man astride Billy Brue's horse, fol lowed by his pack mule and preceded by Billy. Already, such was his buoyance and habit of quick recovery and readjust ment under reverses, his thoughts were turning to his grandson. Dan iel's boythere was the grandson of his grandfatherthe son of his father fresh from college, and the instruc tions of European travel, knowing many things his father had not known, ready to take up the work of his fa ther, and capable, perhaps, of giving it a better finish. Hi beloved west had lost one of its valued builders, but another should take his place. His boy should come to him and finish the tasks of his father and, in the years to come, make other mighty tasks of empire building for himself and the children of his children. CHAPTER III. THE WEST AGAINST THE EAST. Two months later a sectional war was raging in the Bines home at Mon tana City. The west and the east were met in conflictthe old and the new the stale and the fresh. And, if the bitterness was dissembled by the com batants, not less keenly was it felt, nor less determined was either faction to be relentless. The sole non-combatant was Mrs. Bines, the widow. A neutral was this good woman, and a well-wisher to each faction. "I tell you it's all the same to me," she declared, "Montana City or Fifth avenue in New York. I guess I can do well enough in either place, so long as the rest of you are satisfied." It had been all the same to Mrs. Bines for as many years as a woman of 50 can remember. It was the lot of wives in her day and environment early to learn the supreme wisdom of abolishing preferences. Riches and poverty, ease and hardship, mountain and plain, town and wilderness, they followed in no ascertainable sequence, and a superiority of indifference to each was the only protection against hurts from the unexpected. This trained neutrality of Mrs. Bines served her finely now. She had no leading to ally herself against her chil dren in their wish to go east, nor against Uncle Peter Bines in his stub* born effort to keep them west. She folded her hands to wait on the others. And the battle raged. The old man sole defender of the virtuous and stalwart west against an east that he alleged to be effete and depraved, had now resorted to sar casma thing that Mr. Carlyle thought was as good as the language of the devil. "And here, now how about this dog-luncheon?" he continued, glancing at a New York newspaper clutched accusingly in his hand. "It was give, I see, by one of your Newport cronies. Now, that's healthy doin's fur a two fisted Christian, ain't it? I want to know. Shappyronging a select com pany of lady and gentlemen dogs trom soup to coffee pressing a little more of the dog-biscuit on this one, and seein' that the other don't misplay its finger-bowl no way. Ho I would love to read of a Bines standin' up, all in purty velvet pants, most likely, to re ceive at one of them bow-wow func tionsfunctions, I believe, is the name of it?" he ended, in polite inquiry. "There, there, Uncle Peter!" the young man broke in, soothingly "you mustn't take those Sunday newspapers as gospel truth those stories are print ed for just such rampant old tender foots as you are and even if there is one foolish freak, he doesn't represent all society in the better sense of the term." "Yes, and you!" Uncle Peter broke out again, reminded of another griev ance. "You know well enough your true name is PeterPete and Petie wnen you was a baby, and Peter when you left for college. An you're ashamed of what you've done, too, for you tried to hide them callin' cards from me the other day, only you wa'n't quick enough. Bring 'em out! I'm bound your mother and Pish shall see 'em. Out with 'em!" The young man not without embar rassment, drew forth a Russia leather card case which the old man took from him as one having authority. "Here you are, Marthy Bines!" he exclaimed, handing her a card "here you are! read iU 'Mr. P. Percival Bines.' No don't you feel proud of havin' stuck out for Percival when you see it in cold print? You know mighty well his pa and me agreed to Percival only fur a middle name, jest to please youand he wa'n't to be called by it only jest Peter or 'Peter P.' at most and now look at the way he's gone and garbled his good name." Mr. P. Percival Bines blushed fu riously here, but rejoined nevertheless, with quiet dignity, that a man's name was something about which he should have the ruling voice, especially where it was possible for him to rectify or conceal the unhappy choice of his par ents. "And while we're on names," he continued, "do try to remember in case you ever get among people, that Sis' name is Psyche, and not Pish." The blond and complacent Miss Bines here moved uneasily in her pat ent blue plush rocker and spoke for the first time, with a grateful glance at her brother. "Yes, Uncle Peter, for mercy's sake, do try! Don't make us a laughing stock!" "But your name is Pish. A person's name is what their folks name 'em, ain't it? Your a comes acrost a name in a book that she likes the looks of, and she takes it to spell Pish, and she ups and names you Pish, and we all calls you Pish and Pishy, and then when you toddle off to public school and let 'em know how you spell it they tell you it's something else an outlandish name if spellin' means anything. If it comes to that you ought to change the spellin' instead of the name that your poor pa loved." Yet the old man had come to know that he was fighting a lost fightlost before it had ever begun. "It will be a good chance," ventured Mrs. Bines, timidly, "for PishyI mean SikeSickyto meet the right sort of people." "Yes, I should sayand the wrong sort. The ingagin' host of them lady and gentlemen dogs, fur instance." "But, Uncle Peter," broke in the young man, "you shouldn't expect a girl of Psyche's beauty and fortune to vegetate in Montana City all her life. Why, any sort of brilliant marriage is possible to her if she goes among the right people. Don't you want the fam ily to amount to something socially? Is our money to do us no good? And do you think I'm going to stay here and be a mossback and raise chin whis gers and work myself to death the way my father did?" "No, no," replied the old man, with a glance at the mother "not jest the way your pa did you might do some different and some better but all the same, you won't do any better'n he did any way you'll learn to live in New York. Unless you was to go broke there," he added, thoughtfully "in that case you got the stuff in you and it'd come out but you got too much money to go broke." "And you'll see that I lead a decent enough life. Times have changed since my father was a young man." "Yes that's wh at your pa told me times had changed since I was a young man but I could 'a' done him good if he'd 'a' listened." "Well, we'll try it. The tide is set ting that way from all over tn coun- try." "Well, now do me a last favor be fore you pike off east," pleaded the old man. "Make a trip with me over the properties. See 'em once anyway, and see a little more of this country and these people. Mebbe they're bet ter'n you think. Give me about three weeks or a month, and then, by Crim ini, you can go off if you're set on it and be 'whatever is finest and best in the American character,' as some feller puts it. Bu some day, son, you'll find out there's a whole lot of difference between a great man of wealth and a man of great wealth. Them last is gettin' terrible common." So the old man and the young man made the round of the Bines proper ties. The former nursed a forlorn little hope of exciting an interest in the concerns most vital to him to the latter the leisurely tour in the pri vate car was a sportive prelude to the serious business of life, as \t should be lived, in the east. Considering it as such he endured it amiably, and in deed the long August days and the sharply cool nights were not without real enjoyment for him. They awoke one morning to find the car on a siding at the One Girl mine. Coupled to it was another car from an eastern road that their train had taken on some time in the night. Per cival noted the car with interest as he paced beside the track in the cool, clear air before breakfast. The cur tains were drawn, and the only signs of life to be observed were at the kitchen end, where the white-clad cook could be seen astir. Grant, por ter on the Bines car, told him the other car had been taken on at Kaslo Junc tion, and that it belonged to Rulon Shepler, the New York financier, who was aboard with a party of friends. As Percival and Uncle Peter left their car for the shaft house after breakfast, the occupants of the other car were bestirring themselves. From one of the open windows a low but impassioned voice was ex hausting the current idioms of damna tion in sweeping dispraise of all land areas north and west of Fifty-ninth street. New York. Uncle Peter smiled grimly. Percival flushed, for the hidden protestant had uttered what were his own sentiments a month before. Reaching the shaft house they chat ted with Pangburn, the superintend ent, and then went to the store room to don blouses and overalls for a descent into the mine. For an hour they stayed under ground, traversing the various levels and drifts, while Pangburn explained the later developments of the vein and showed them where the new stoplng had been begun. CHAPTER IV. A MEETING AND A CLASHING A they stepped from the cage at the surface Percival became aware of a group of strangers between him and the open door of the shaft house people displaying in dress and manner the unmistakable stamp of New York. For part of a minute, while the pupils of his eyes were contracting to the light, he saw them but vaguely. Then, as his sight cleared, he beheld fore most in the group, beaming upon him with an expression of pleased and sur prised recognition, the girl whose face and voice had for nearly half a year peopled his lover's solitude with fair visions and made its silence to be all melody. Had the encounter been anticipated his composure would perhaps have failed him. No a few of his waking dreams had sketched this, their second meeting, and any one of the wa ys it had pleased him to plan it would as suredly have found him nervously em barrassed. Bu so wildly improbable was this reality that not the daringest of his imagined happenings had ap proached it. Hi thoughts for the mo ment had been not of her then, all at once, she stood before him in the PROFESSIONAL CARDS. r\ R. D. A. McRAE DENTIST Fellows Block. PmwM?.5? ei PRINCETON, MINN )R. F. L. SMALL, nw DENTIST. Office hours 9 a to 12m Anderso 's 2 Princeton?r p. m. to 5 p. nu E B'm Minn. ROSS CALEY, M. D., PHYSICIAN AND SURGEOJT Office and Residence o^jtSPS^^e. D...... *-ei--Sural, 36. Princeton, CJLVERO L. MCMILLAN, Minn. LAWYER. Office in Odd Fellows' Buildine Princeton, J.A. ROSS, ATTORNEY AT LAW. Ma e*? arew Block, I fflc Main Street. 'Princeton. BUSINESS CARDS. Yyn. KALIHER, BARBER SHOP & BATH ROOMS. A fine line of Tobacco and Cigars Main Street, princ* I OUIE HORSTMAN] TONSORIAL PARLORS. 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