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The Bluffton news. [volume] (Bluffton, Ohio) 1875-current, June 11, 1942, Image 7

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THE STORY SO FAR: As a rancher.
Clay Morgan knows he must fight rus
tlers. But he doesn’t like the methods
used against them by big ranchers like
Ben Herendeen. Determined to play a
lone hand rather than a crooked one,
he defends the rustler. Ollie Jacks, when
he is freed after his trial for stealing
Herendeen's cattle. Herendeen prom
ises to leave Jacks alone as long as he
doesn't try to leave town. Morgan and
his nine-year-old daughter, Janet, go to
the cemetery where his wife is burled.
Although two women, Catherine Grant
and Ann McGarrah. are in love with
him. Morgan cannot forget his wife, who
died hating him and believing she should
have married Herendeen. On their way
back to town they see Ollie Jacks ride
away. So it Is no surprise when Morgan
learns a little later that Jacks has
been killed. Herendeen had kept his
word and no mere.
Now continue with the story.
Clay Morgan ate breakfast by
lamplight and was in the saddle be
fore day crossed the eastern hills.
Harry Jump and Cap Vermilye were
at roundup in the Haycreek Hills,
leaving only Mose, too old for such
riding, and the Mexican cook, Pan
cho, on the ranch. Morgan said to
Mose: “I'll probably be back after
dark. Put some new crosspieces on
the front gate—it's coming apart,”
and set forth southward across his
range. At this elevation the night
air was sharp enough to bite through
his vest and cotton shirt. The big
bay horse shot away on a run. Mor
gan let him have his run.
Mogul’s rim lay two miles north,
behind him. The ranch house and
its corrals and barns sat at the foot
of the rising Mogul Hills, which
ran straight south along the base of
these hills, following the ruts of a
casual road, Clay Morgan took his
way. To his left, a half mile, an
other string of hills lifted up, so
creating the long and narrow valley
he followed. This was his range,
emerging slowly from the ink-gray
twilight. When first sunlight burst
across the eastern peaks Morgan
was six miles down the valley and
at the end of his own range. A
small ridge lay in front of him at
the summit he reined in to have his
look at the round bowl of Govern
ment Valley.
Ducking in and out of the small
ravines of the land he came upon
cattle and young stuff occasionally
grazing, herding these before him
and throwing them back toward the
roundup crew. Three men were
working this section—Charley Hill
house and two other Three Pines
hands. He drove his small collec
tion of beef into the held bunch and
started on another circle, Hillhouse
accompanying him. Around ten
o’clock, having dragged the north
end of the range, all of them start
ed the held bunch back for the main
The sun was a copper-red flare in
the middle sky and the dust began
to thicken behind the herd. Morgan
dropped back to the drag, throwing
his neckpiece over his nose. Charley
Hillhouse motioned one of the other
men to take his place and joined
Morgan and made his first speech in
two hours.
“I been thinkin’ over last night,
Clay. Hard to figure.”
“Let it slide, Charley.”
Charley Hillhouse retorted, “It
won’t slide,” and stared before him.
He was a compact, capable man,
not given to much talk the type to
worry a lot of things around in his
head, to reach his own answers and
hold his own conclusions.
Herendeen and his men cleared the
Haycreek Hills of the last straggling
stock Gurd Grant cleaned up the
edge of the Potholes and came in.
Running W had scoured Fanolango
Pass, and at twilight this day the
job was done, the brands segregat
ed and held in separate herds. Aft
er supper Morgan started Harry
Jump back to the Mogul range with
the Long Seven beef, and the Crow
foot and Running W cuts went away,
lumbering shadows in the moon
light, the scrape of feet and the
click of those long horns and the
plaintive “Baw” of the last calf rid
ing back through the night-still air.
Dust and heat were gone and the
campfire’s flame, so still was this
air, tapered upward to blue-yellow,
almost stationary point. Charley
Hillhousc, who was wagon boss,
said: “We’ll move over and work
the Antelope Plains tomorrow.”
The cook swore around the shad
ows, harnessing his team. After
wards the mess wagon went bump
ing away on its four-hour ride, to
be ready on the Antelope Plains by
daybreak. Lying on his blanket,
head athwart the seat of his saddle,
Clay Morgan listened to the dry
groaning of the wagon wheels fade
into this enormous night. He rolled
a cigarette and savored its keen
smell. Stars crowded the sky they
washed that limitless sweep of
black with a diamond-glitter, all
down to the black horizon’s edge,
until they seemed to fall below the
rim of a flat world. Here and there
in the pine summits coyotes began
to hark up their mourning plaint.
Hillhouse and Clay Morgan and Lige
White sat by the fire, their cheeks
sharply, taciturnly graved by light
and shadows and men lay blan
keted in the background, weary and
relaxed and cradled by their inward
thinking. Herendeen walked forward
from the shadows to stand high
above this sprawled group. He
tossed a sage stem into the fire and
watched the pale and heatless flame
rise. He was across from Clay Mor
gan his eyes searched the crowd.
The edges of his vest fell away from
the rounds of his shoulders and the
deep stretch of his chest his big
ness was all in proportion, legs and
arms and torso it was a muscular
bigness, a bigness of thick bones.
“Lige,” he said, “I hear there’s a
new’ homesteader come to the spring
Jim Spackman used to squat on.”
“I heard so,” said Lige White.
“We’ll warn him out of there to
morrow,” said Herendeen. But
when he stopped talking Clay Mor
gan knew he wasn’t finished. Her
endeen’s thoughts were on his face,
for everybody to see. “Or maybe
we’ve got some great big soul in
this crowd whose heart bleeds for
people like that. Seems to be a hell
of a lot of charity around here
Morgan swayed forward to lift a
burning sage stem from the fire
its oil-bright glow flickered against
his cheeks, against his eyes. This
silence held its waiting and its re
serve. Morgan tossed the sage stem
back into the fire, drawing a sharp
glance from Charley Hillhouse. Lige
White uncomfortably crossed his
feet. Gurd Grant crouched by the
blaze and revealed nothing on his
scrupulously neutral face. Morgan
relaxed gently on his shoulder
blades and pillowed his head against
the saddle. He said nothing but he
saw the changing expression on Her
endeen's cheeks. Herendeen had
braced himself for trouble, he had
maneuvered this talk around to
make a break but nothing hap
pened and he stood a moment, un
certain and displeased, and after
wards walked away.
Instead of turning west to his own
ranch, Herendeen traveled due south
toward a low range of hills which
separated Running W from Three
Pines. An hour’s ride brought him
within sight of a far-shining light,
which »was the mark of a home
steader’s cabin against the hills but
when he came upon the homestead
er’s cabin, drifting into the heavy
shadows at the base of these hills, a
dog began to bark and suddenly the
light died. He reined in before the
cabin, feeling his contempt for the
evident fear which had caused the
homesteader to kill the light. They
were all alike, these homesteaders,
little men crawling as near the
range as they dared, sticking their
plows into the unplowcd soil and
slowly starving while the sun burnt
up their crops and ruined the land
ever afterward for graze. He could
not tolerate this breed, or their sun
blackened wives, or their tow-head
ed children.
He sent his deep, blunt call at
the shack. “Hey come out
They were talking, inside. A boy’s
voice said, “Pa, don’t go.” A woman
was talking, quickly and with sup
pressed excitement. The door
squealed open and somebody stood
in its black square, speechless.
“What you doing here?” demand
ed Herendeen. “This place is on
Lige White’s range. We drove Jim
Spackman away from it last year.”
“You Lige White?” said a man in
a dim, drawn tone.
“What the hell is that to you?
My name’s Herendeen and I asked
you a question.”
“Oh,” said the man. “I’m Jack
Gale. I bought Jim Spackman’s
rights to this place.”
“He never had any rights to sell.”
“He built the house, Mr. Heren
deen.” Then the man added, quiet
ly, “It’s free land, ain’t it? I under
stood it was. I also understood Mr.
White wouldn’t mind.”
Herendeen was nettled by the ar
gument. “You damned nesters are
all alike, trying to stand on this free
land business. You stick your plow
into it and ruin it, and starve to
death, and steal cattle to keep your
kids alive, and move away. We’re
not in the game of providin’ meat
to nesters.”
Gale’s wife called from the in
terior of the house. “Jack, come in
here. Come in.” Herendeen heard
her run over the floor. She caught
hold of her husband and these two
were gently wrestling around the
doorway with Gale saying, “Now,
Allie, stop it—stop it.” But she
pulled him inside and slammed the
door. A child, very young, began
to cry in a thin, startled rhythm.
Herendeen pushed his horse over
the yard, bound away for his ranch.
As he followed the net of trails
He sent his deep, blunt call at the
shack, “Hey—come out here.**
leading upward to the Mogul, Hack
Breathitt had no cares and no se
rious thoughts. This was a fine,
warm day. Ahead of him on the
pine-shadowed trail occasional gold
en shafts of sunlight slanted through
the tree tops. Here and there a
swirl of dust showed where an an
telope had been a moment before.
The silence was thick and held its
rank scent of resin and at intervals
Hack sang incomplete bits of such
songs as he knew, the sound of that
going out around him in widening
waves. Dusk caught him in this
rough land, still without any thought
of direction at full dark he turned
a bend of the trail and saw firelight
pulse against the side of a near-by
The fire, he found, was at the base
of a bare rock wall running up the
side of Mogul. There wasn’t any
body within the range of firelight,
but Hack reined in and held his
seat, knowing that somebody had
stepped into the shadows and was
watching him. A moment later Pete
Borders came forward.
“You make enough racket to raise
the dead, Hack. Pull off your saddle
if you ain’t goin’ any place.”
Hack said, indolently amused:
“Now where would I be goin’?” He
stepped to the ground and relieved
the horse of its gear. He watered
it, put it out on picket he had his
own frying pan and coffeepot and
presently was crouched at the fire
with Borders.
Borders said: “Nothin’ new?”
“A man,” reflected Breathitt,
“that never goes any place never
hears anything.”
He tossed a fresh stick into the
fire, the flare of it heightening the
rusty shine of his hair. He had a
dry, smart face double wrinkles
crossed his forehead. His eyes, on
the edge of being green, were nar
row-bright. He had been watching
the livid heart of the flame, but his
head rose and his eyes stared into
the surrounding darkness. He was
a tight, close-listening shape and
presently he rose and stepped into
the shadows.
Somebody rode along the near-ty
trail slowly, and stopped. Hack
Breathitt held his position, too clear
of conscience to move. He poised
the cigarette between his fingers,
hearing the rider poke up the ravine.
The rider said, “Just me—just old
Parr Gentry lookin’ for horses.”
He came to the fire, this owner
of the livery stable in War Pass. He
rolled in the saddle, staring down at
Hack Breathitt a long moment be
fore recognizing him. “Why, hello,
Hack. Didn’t know I’d find you on
this side of the Mogul. Thought you
liked the other side best.”
“Any side's all right,” drawled
Breathitt. Parr Gentry shifted his
weight again, a little heavy to find
comfort in his saddle. His face, by
firelight, was round and solid-fleshed
and darkly dull. His eyes rummaged
this little clearing and saw Pete Bor
ders’ saddle and blanket on the far
edge of the fire—and the two horses
picketed near the spring. Breathitt
realized Gentry knew Borders’
horse. He held his silence, he took
a long drag on the cigarette. “Late
for you, ain’t it, Parr?”
“Been draggin’ this section all day
lookin’ for horses. You seen a band
around here?”
“Wild ones? They’d be clear to
the top of Mogul in this weather.”
“Lookin’ for tracks,” murmured
Gentry. “Thought they might come
down for water. Well, I’ll be goin’.
Long way to War Pass.” He wheeled
about, groaning softly as he went
Pete Borders stepped into the light.
His face showed its smart disbelief.
“He’s been chasin’ horses long
enough to know they ain’t down
here. And he wasn’t pointed for
War Pass when he left, either.” Aft
erwards he added: “Didn’t want to
show myself. Won’t do you any
good to be seen campin’ with me,
old boy.”
“He saw your horse.”
Borders shook his head. He set
tled in his blanket, just beyond the
light the fire died away and a
small breeze rolled down the face of
Keep it up—don’t let up—keep
buying Defense Stamps and War
Bonds to help preserve our demo
cratic way of life.
High Quality
West Virginia
See me before placing your
R. E. Tripplehorn
Phone 396-W
HORSES $6.00
COWS $4.00
(of size and condition)
23221—LIMA, OHIO
Revert* Tel. Chargee E. G. Beeheieb, Inc.
Town talk and she got 75
pounds for canning o yeah
how do they think we can make
preserves and what we gonna
do with all the cherries coming on
I stood in line at Lima last
week for three hours talk about
saving tires and gas and then make
us go over there for permits
never canned that before but I’ll
try it this year.
And congratulations Bluffton’s
corps of volunteers who handled the
canning sugar rationing so efficient
ly after a flood of protests resulted
in establishing a branch of the
county rationing system here. Ap
plications for canning sugar were
handled on an average of from five
to ten minutes each with no stand
ing in line—thanks to the large
number of registrars who were
ready to handle the business.
Handling of the canning sugar
rationing was ample evidence that
Bluffton can administer its rationing
problems locally and should serve as
an example for any future problems
of wartime distribution.
If you shy away from the number
13—forget it, is the advice of J. J.
Luginbuhl, Beaverdam hardware
dealer and former Western Ohio in
terurban conductor. J. J. told us
one the other day that for a com
bination of 13’s is hard to beat.
Here ’tis: It was way back in the
year 1913, train No. 13, Car No. 13
left Findlay station at 9:13 a. m.
with 13 passengers on his run to
Piqua. Strange to say there was no
accident, no trolley trouble and no
mad faces all day. Oh yes, we might
also mention that it was on Friday,
the 13th.
If you know your peonies perhaps
you can help A. E. Lichtenwalter
out of a troublesome situation.
Some time ago Lich, whose hobby
is flower gardening, bought four
peony bulbs. For three of them he
paid a quarter each but for the
fourth one, an Augusta Deserte he
went all out and laid $6 on the line.
Unfortunately the bulbs became mix
ed and looked as much alike as four
peas in a pod—but wait until they
bloom, thought Lich, then we’ll know
which is which. Well the peonies
are in bloom and still look as much
alike as the aforementioned four
peas. So which one is Augusta?
Lynn Carmack, young son of Geo.
Carmack of the Star theatre is hav
ing his hands full explaining the
origin of a big black eye. There’s
no mistaking the “shiner” but
truth of the matter is that it came
when he was struck by an iron shoe
in a friendly game of horseshoe
It’s a hard summer for Canadians
traveling in the U. S. this year, says
E. B. Betzner of Kitchener, Ontario,
formerly of Bluffton who is visiting
here this week. Due to wartime
regulations, Canadians are not per
mitted to take money with them out
side of that country. He was able
to get to Bluffton by accompanying
his daughter, resident of a Buffalo
suburb, who was driving thru to
It’s a picture of Tine McGriff’s
barbership exhibited in the News
window this week that is attracting
attention of the oidtimers. The pic
ture is believed to have been taken
more than forty years ago when the
barbershop was located where the
dining room of the Long restaurant
now stands. Recognized in the pic
ture are McGriff, with the late
Moses Steiner in the barber chair.
Campus Martius Museum, Marietta
Thousands of Ohio travelers and tourists from other states annually visit
the Campus Martius Museum at Marietta, pictured above. “Campus Martius’’
was the name given by the Ohio Company to its fortified home soon after the
landing at Marietta in 1788. the first permanent settlement in the Northwest
Territory. A section of the original fortification is enclosed in a wing of the
museum, equipped with furniture used by the early pioneers. This and many
other historic spots and points of interest are described in a booklet “Enjoy
Yourself in Ohio, copy of which may be had bv mailing request to Ohio
Development and I ubhcity Commission, Wyandotte Building, Columbus, Ohio.

Forest Mumma is the young bar
ber working at the second chair.
Cleo Smith now of Lima is the
“shine ’em up” boy. The photo was
left at the office by Albert Reichen
bach who also brought a picture of
the Hotel Russell destroyed by fire
in 1919.
While in Lima the other day to
obtain his permit for canning sugar
Dr. Gordon Bixel found himself in a
dilemma. He would either find him
self forced to pay a fine because of
overstaying his time at the parking
meter or lose his place in the long
line of people in Lima to get their
sugar certificates. After waiting
for two hours he decided not to lose
his place in the line and take
chances on the fine. Finally he
could stand it no longer and forcing
his way to the front of the line
asked the coordinator why the ra
tioning could not be done in Bluff
ton. The protests began to fly in so
rapidly that the Lima center made
arrangements for a local office.
P.S. Gordon paid the fine.
The most recent convert to the
village coin collecting fraternity is
Bill Edwards. Already he has Lin
coln and Indian head penny collec
tors books almost completely filled
How many of you ever read the
radio column in the Cleveland Plain
Dealer written by Robert S. Ste
phan? Stephan is a former Bluff
ton boy and a native of this com
munity. His father, the late
Charley Stephan, about 40 years
ago was proprietor of Bluffton’s
Stevens Hotel, later the Hotel
Russell that stood on the site now
occupied by the Citizens National
Bank. Th hotel was destroyed in
what was probably th town's most
disastrous fire back in 1919.
George Swank, popular Bluffton
athlete, is working as a meat cut
ter at the Bigler Bros. Meat Market.
This is a slightly different version
his future position as biology in
structor at the Boys Industrial
Schoo) at Lancaster where he will
also do some cutting, the difference
being that the instruments and sub
jects of dissection are not the same
as in his present position. George
will also coach at the state institu
tion serving as head football coach,
assistant basketball and baseball
coach and physical education teach
er. The position begins in the
middle of July.
It surely seems familiar to see
W. A. Howe walking across the
Bluffton college campus where he is
teaching English courses this sum
mer. Since he has been mayor of
the town and instructor at the high
school for the past eight years we
had almost forgotten that he had
luen an English professor at the
college for more than a decade.
James Fett, son of Mr. and Mrs.
Clair Fett left Monday for Dear
born, Mich., where he will work at
the Henry Ford Trade school for
the summer. Jim says that he could
work in the office as a typist and
clerk if he wanted to but that he
doesn’t particularly relish punching
Your Own Judgment Will Tell You:
More people go to
than to any other dealer organization
because for years more people have purchased Chevrolets
than any other make of car.
because for years more people have purchased used cars from
Chevrolet dealers than from any other dealer organization.
because Chevrolet dealers specialize in giving skilled, de
pendable service on all makes of cars and trucks.
Originator and Outstanding Leader “CAR CONSERVATION PLAN
Fly with the Navy
as an Officer
High School
graduates or
College Men,
18 to 26,
are eligible.
Your Navy
offers the
world’s finest
on land, at
sea, in the air
Squadrons, sponsored by schools,
clubs, towns are now being formed
so that buddies may fly together.
Aviation at Its Best—Navy Aviation
a typewriter eight hours a day. He
will room with Dale Grismore, son
of Mr. and Mrs. Alan Grismore,
west of town, who is also working
at the Ford plant.
Dr. C. Henry Smith, of Campus
Drive, is having cjuite a time with
an over prolific apple tree. The
green apples have been falling off
in large quantities and the moment
he cleans them off the sidewalk they
are replaced by dozens more which
drop with almost staccato like reg
Mayor Howe says that peas right
out of the garden surely taste good.
Ever since last Thursday the mayor
and his family have been enjoying
this leguminous type vegetable rais
ed in his own home garden.
The profit must be in the turnover,
but at least there’s one embryo mer
chant in Bluffton who’s content to
do business on a basis that leaves
nothing for the overhead or profits.
Bruce Hauenstein, seven-year-old son
of Mr. and Mrs. Armin Hauenstein,
Monday was selling a cool-ade mix
ture that cost him five cents for
the same price. When queried about
his profit, he remarked, “Well, at
least I’m not losing any money.”
Ohio farmers will plant 49,000
acres of sugar beets in 1942, an
increase of 8,000 acres over last
year. The average annual sugar
beet acreage in Ohio from 1928 to
1933 was 25,000 acres.
Monday 7:45 P. M. June 15th
heck and Rotate
Get Regular Lubri
Service Engine-Car
Test Brakes
E Check Steering and
Wheel Alignment
Check Clutch, Trans
mission, Rear Axle
Check Cooling
o Protect and Pre
u sene Finish

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