The Cody enterprise and the Park County enterprise., September 27, 1922, Page SIX, Image 6

About The Cody enterprise and the Park County enterprise. (Cody, Wyo.) 1921-1923

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SIX
The STRENGTH By MARS Mi
of the PINES Author of “The Voice of the Pack”
SETTING THE TRAP
SYNOPSIS—At the death of his
foster father Bruce Duncan, in an
eastern city, receives a mysterious
message, sent by a Mrs. Ross, sum
moning him peremptorily to south
ern Oregon—to meet "Linda.”
Bruce has vivid but baffling recol
•?ctions of his childhood in an or
phanage, before his adoption by
Newton Duncan, with the girl Lin
da. At his destination. Trail’s End,
news that a message has been sent
to Bruc*' gets to Simon Turner.
Leaving tne train, Bruce Is aston
ished at his apparent familiarity
with the surroundings, though to
his knowledge he has never been
there. On the way Simon warns
him to give up his quest and return
East. Bruce refuses. Mrs. Ross,
aged and Infirm, welcomes him
with emotion. She hastens him on
his way—the end of "Pine-Needle
Trail.” Bruce finds his childhood
playmate, Linda. The girl tells him
of wrongs committed by an enemy
clan, the Turners, on her family,
the Rosses. Lands occupied by the
clan were stolen from the Rosses,
and the family, with the exception
of Aunt Elmira (Mrs. Ross) and
herself, wiped out by assassination.
Bruce's father, Matthew Folger,
was one of the victims. His mother
had fled with Bruce and Linda.
The girl, while small, had been kid
naped from the orphanage and
brought to the mountains. Linda's
father had deeded his lands to
Matthew Folger, but the agree
ment. which would confute the
enemy claims on the property, had
been lost Bruce's mountain blood
responds to the call of the blood
feud. A giant tree, the Sentinel
Pine, in front of Linda’s cabin,
seems to Bruce's excited Imagina
tion to be endeavoring to convey a
message. Bruce sets <sit in search
of a trapper named Hudson, a wit
ness to the agreement between
Lindr. s father and Matthew Fol
ger. A gigantic grizzly, known as
the Killer la the terror of the vi
cinity. T>ave Turner, sent by
Simon bribes Hudson to swear
falsely concerning the agreement
The Killer strikes down Hudson.
Bruce, on his way to Hudson,
wounds the Killer, driving him
from his victim. Hudson, learning
Bruce's identity, tries to tell him
the hiding place of the agreement,
but death summons him.
CHAPTER XVl—Continued.
Simon smiled mirthlessly. “The
news Is beginning to sound like the
rest of yours.’’
“Old Hudson is dead,” Dave went
on. “And don’t look at me—l didn’t
do it. 1 wish I had, though, first off.
For once my Judgment was better
than yours. The Killer got him.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I was with him when It happened.
My gun got Jammed so I couldn’t
shoot.”
“Where is it now?”
Dave scrambled in vain for a story
to explain the loss of his weapon to
Bruce, and the one that came out at
last didn’t do him particular credit.
“I—l threw the d —n thing away.
Wish I hadn’t now, but it made me so
mad by Jamming—it was a fool trick.
Maybe I can go back after it and find
it.”
Simon smiled again. “Very good so
far,” he commented.
Dave flushed. “Bruce was there,
too—fact Is, creased the bear —and
the last minute before he died Hudson
told him where the agreement was
hidden. I couldn’t hear all he said —
I was too far away—but I heard
enough to think that he told Bruce
the hiding place.”
“And why didn’t you get that infor
mation away from Bruce with your
gun?”
"Didn’t I tell you the thing was
jammed? If it hadn’t of been for that.
I’d done something more than find out
where it is. I’d stopped this non
sense once and for all, and let a hole
through that tenderfoot big enough to
see through. Then there’d never be
any more trouble. It’s the thing to do
now."
Simon looked at his brother’s face
with some wonder. More crafty and
cunning, Dave was like the coyote In
that he didn’t yield so quickly to fury
as that gray wolf, his brother. But
when it did come, it scared him. It
had come now. Simon couldn’t mis
take the fact; lie saw it plain in the
glowing eyes, the clenched hands, the
drawn lips. Dave was remembering
the pain of the blow Bruce had given
him and the smart of the words that
had preceded it.
“You and be must have had a little
session down there by the creek,”
Simon suggest-xl slowly, “when your
gun was Jamined. Os course, he took
the gun. What’s the use of trying to
lie to me?”
“He did. What could I do?”
“And now you want him potted—
from ambush.”
“What’s the use of waiting? Who’d
know?” The two men stood face to
face In the quiet and deepening dusk
of the barn; and there was growing
determination on each face. “Every
day our chance is less and less,” Dave
went on. “With this land behind him,
he’d be In a position to pay old debts,
I’m telling you. We should have met
him on the trail and let the buzzards
talk to him.”
“Yes,” Simon echoed in a strange
half-whisper. “Let the buzzards talk
to him.”
Dave took fresh heart at the sound
of that voice. “No one w'ouid have ever
knowed it,” he went on. “No one
would ever know it now’. They’d find
his bones, some time, maybe, but
there’d be no one to point to. They’d
never get anything against us. I tell
you—it’s all the way, or no way at all.
Tell me to wait for him on the trail.”
“Wait. Wait a minute. How long
before he will come?”
“Any time now. And don’t postpone
this matter any more. We’re men,
not babies. He’s not a fool or a cow
ard. either. And he’s a shot —I saw
that plain enough—and how’d you
like to have him shoot through your
windows some time? Old Elmira and
Linda have set him on, and he’s hot
for it.”
“I wish you’d got that old heifer
when you got her son,” Simon said.
He still spoke calmly; but it was
plain enough that Dave’s words were
having the desired effect;. “So he’s
taken up the blood-feud, has he? I
thought I gave his father some lessons
in that a long time since. Well, I sup
pose we must let him have his way I”
“And remember, too,” Dave urged,
“what you told him when you met him
In the store. You said you w’ouldn’t
warn him twice.”
“I remember.” The tv?o men w’ere
silent, but Dave stood no longer mo
tionless. He was shivering all over
with malice and fury.
“Then you’ve given the word?” he
“I’ve given the w’ord, but I’ll do it
my own way. Listen, Dave.” Simon
stood, head bent, deep in thought.
“Could you arrange to have Linda
and the old hag out of the house when
Bruce gets back?”
“Yes—”
“We’ve got to work this thing right.
We can’t operate in the open like w’e
used to. This man has taken up tiie
hlond-feud—but the thing to do—is to
let him come to us."
“But he w’on’t do it. He’ll go to the
courts first.”
Simon’s face grew stern. “I don’t
want any more Interruptions, Dave. I
mean we will want to give the impres
sion that he attacked us first—on his
own free will. What if he comes into
our house —a man unknown In these
parts—and something huppers to him
there —in the dead of night? It
wouldn’t look so bad then, would It?
Besides—if we got him here—before
the clan, we might be able to find out
where Hint document is. First, how
can you tell when <he’s going to
come?”
“He ought td be here very soon.
The moon’s bright and I cun get up
on the ridge and see his shadow
tiirough your field glasses when he
crosses the big south pasture. That
will give me a full half-hour before he
comes.”
“It’s enough. I’m ready to give you
your orders now. They are—just to
use your head, and on some pretext
get those two women out of the house
so that Bruce can’t find them when he
returns. Don’t let them come back
for an hour, if you can help it. If it
works—all right. If it doesn’t, we’ll
use more direct measures. I’ll tend to
the rest.”
He strode to the wall and took
down a saddle from the hook. Quick
ly he threw it over the back of one of
the cow ponies, the animal that he had
punished. He put the bridle in Dave’s
hand. “Stop at the house for the
glasses, then ride to the ridge at
once,” he ordered. “Then keep watch.”
CHAPTER XVII
The day was quite dead when Dave
Turner reached his post on top of the
ridge. Fortunately, the moon rose
early. Otherwise Dave’s watch w’ouid
have been in vain. He didn’t have
long to wait. At the end of a half
hour he saw, through the field glasses,
the wavering of a strange black
shadow on the distant meadow. He
tried to get a better focus. It might
be Just the shadow of deer, come to
browse on the parched grass. Dave
felt a little tremor of excitement at
the thought that If It were not Bruce,
It was more likely the last of the
•grizzlies, the Killer. The previous
night tiie gray forest king had made
an excursion Into Simon’s pastures
and had killed a yearling calf; in all
probability he would return tonight to
finish tils feast. In fact, this night
w ould In all probability see the end of
the Killer. Some one of the Turners
would wait for him, with a loaded
rifle. In a safe ambush.
But it wasn’t the Killer, after all. It
was before his time; besides, the
shadow was too slender to be that of
the huge bear. Dave Turner watched
a moment longer, so that there could
be no possibility of a mistake. Bruce
was returning; he was little more
than a half-hour’s walk from Linda’s
home.
Turner swung on his horse, then
lashed the animal Into a gallop. Less
than five minutes later he drew up to
a halt beneath the Sentinel Pine, al
most a mile distant. For the first
time, Dave began to move cautiously.
lit would complicate matters if the
two women had already gone to bed.
The hour was early—not yet nine—
but the fall of darkness is often the
golng-to-bad time of the mountain peo-
ple. It is warmer there and safer;
and the expense of candles is les
sened. But tonight Linda and old
Elmira were sitting up, waiting for
Bruce’s return.
A candle flame flickered at the win
dow. Dave went up to the door and
knocked.
“Who’s there?” Elmira called. It
was a habit learned in the dreadful
days of twenty years ago, not to open
a door without at least some knowl
edge of who stood without. A lighted
For the First Time, Dave Began to
Move Cautiously.
doorway sets off a target almost as
well as a field of white sets off a black
bull’s-eye.
Dave knew the truth was the proper
course. “Dave Turner,” he replied.
A long second of heavy, strange si
lence ensued, ?hen the woman spoke
again. There was a new note in her
voice, a curious hoarseness, but at the
same time a sense of exultation and
excitement. But Dave didn’t notice
it. He might, however, have been in
terested in the singular look of won
der that flashed over Linda’s face-as
she stared at her aged aunt. Linda
was not thinking of Dave. Her whole
attention was seized and held by the
unfamiliar note In her aunt’s voice,
and a strange drawing of the woman’s
features that the closed door prevent
ed Dave from seeing. It was a look
almost of rapture, hardly to be ex
pected in the presence of an enemy.
The dim eyes seemed to glow In the
shadows. It was the look of one who
had wandered steep and unknown
trails for uncounted years and sees
the distant lights of his home at last.
She got up from her chair and
moved over to the little pack she had
carried on her back when she had
walked up from her cabin. Linda still
gazed at her In growing wonder. The
long years seemed to have fallen away
from her; she slipped across the un
carpbted floor with the agility and si
lence of a tiger. She always had given
the impression of latent power, but
never so much as now. She took some
little object from the bag and slipped
it next to her withered and scrawny
breast.
"What do you want?” she called out
into the gloom.
Dave had been getting a little rest
less in the silence; but the voice reas
sured him. “I’ll tell you when you open
the door. It’s something about
Bruce.”
Linda remembered him then. She
leaped to the door and flung it wide.
She saw the stars without, the dark
fringe of pines against the sky line be
hind. But most of all she saw the
cunning, sharp-featured face of Dave
Turner, with the candlelight upon him.
The yellow beams were In his eyes,
too. They seemed full of guttering
lights.
Tiie few times that Linda had talked
to Dave she had always felt uneasy
beneath his speculative gaze. The
same sensation swept over her now.
She knew perfectly what she would
have had to expect, long since, from
this man, were It not that he had lived
in fear of his brother Simon. The
mighty leader of the dan had set a
harrier around her as far as personal
attentions went —and his reasons were
obvious. The mountain girls do not
usually attain her perfection of form
and face; his desire for her was as
Jeiflous ns It was Intense and real. This
dark-hearted man of great and terrible
emotions did not only know how to
hate. In his own savage way he could
love too. Linda hated and feared him,
but the emotion was wholly different
from the dread and abhorrence with
which she regarded Dave. “What
about Bruce?” she demanded.
Dave leered. “Do you want to see
him? He’s lying—up here on the hill.”
The tone was knowing, edged with
cruelty; and it had the desired effect.
The color swept from the girl’s face.
In a slpgle fraction of an instant it
showed stark whits In the candlelight
There was an instant’s sensation of
terrible cold. But her voice was hard
and lifeless when she spoke.
“You mean you’ve killed him?” she
asked simply.
“We ain’t killed him. We’ve just
been teaching him a lesson,” Dave ex
plained. “Simon warned him not to
come up—and we’ve had to talk to him
a little —with fists and heels.”
Linda cried out then, one agonized
syllable. She knew what fists and
heels could do in the fights between
the mountain men. They are as much
weapons of torture as the claws and
fangs of the Killer. She had an In
stant's dread picture of this strong
man of hers lying maimed and broken,
a battered, whimpering, ineffective
thing in the moonlight of some distant
hillside. The vision brought knowledge
to her. Even more clearly than in the
second of their kiss, before he had
gone to see Hudson, she realized what
an immutable part of her he was. She
gazed with growing horror at Dave’s
leering face. “Where is he?” she
asked. She remembered, with singular
steadfastness, the pistol she had con
cealed in her own room.
“I’ll show you. If you want to get
him In you’d better bring the old hag
with you. It’ll take two of you to car
ry him.”
“I’ll come," tiie old woman said from
across the shadowed room. She spoke
with a curious breathlessness. “I'll go
at once.”
The door closed behind the three of
them, and they went out into the moon
lit forest. Dave walked first. It was
wholly characteristic of him that he
should find a degenerate rapture in
showing these two women the terrible
handiwork of the Turners. He re
joiced in Just this sort of cruelty. Lin
da had no suspicion that this excur
sion was only a pretext to get the two
women away from the house, and that
ills eagerness arose from deeper
causes. It was true that Dave exulted
in the work, and strangely the fact
that it was part of the plot against
Bruce had been almost forgotten in
the face of a greater emotion. He was
alone in the darkness with Linda—
except of course for a helpless old
woman—and the command of Simon in
regard to his attitude toward her
seemed suddenly dim and far away. He
led them over a hill, into the deeper
forest.
So intent was lie that he quite failed
to observe a singular little signal be
tween old Elmira and Linda. The wo
man half turned about, giving the girl
an instant’s glimpse of something that
she transferred from her breast to her
sleeve. It was slender and of steel,
and it caught the moonlight on Its
shining surface.
Tiie girl’s eyes glittered when she
beheld IL She nodded, scarcely per
ceptibly, and the strange file plunged
deeper info the shadows.
Fifteen minutes later Dave drew up
to a halt In a little patch of moonlight,
surrounded by a wall of low trees and
brush.
“There’s more than one way to make
a date for a walk with a pretty girl,”
he said.
The girl stared coldly Into his eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
The man laughed harshly. “I mean
that Bruce ain’t got back yet—he’s still
on tiie other side of Little river, for
all I know —”
“Then why did you bring us here?”
“Just to be sociable," Dave returned.
*TII tell you. Linda. I wanted to talk
to you. I ain’t been in favor of a lot
of things Simon’s been doing—to you
and your people. I thought maybe you
and I would like to be—friends.”
No one could mistake the emotion
behind the strained tone, the peculiar
languor in the furtive eyes. The girl
drew hack, shuddering. “I’m going
& *
She Was in His Arms, Struggling
Against Their Steel.
back,” she told him.
“Walt. I’ll take you back soon. Let’s
have a kiss and make friends. The old
lady won’t, look—”
He laughed again, a hoarse sound
that rang far through the silences. He
moved toward her, hands reaching. She
backed away. Then she half-tripped
over an outstretched root.
The next Instant she was In his
arms, struggling against their steel.
She didn’t waste words in pleading. A
- sob caught at her throat, and she
fought with all her strength against
the drawn, nearing face. She had for
gotten Elmira; in this dreadful mo
ment of terror and danger the old wo
’ man’s broken strength seemed too little
to he of aid. And Dave thought her as
helpless to oppose him as the tall
pines that watched from above them.
His wild laughter obscured the single
sound that she made, a strange cry
that seemed lacking In all human qual
ity. Bather it was such a sound as a
puma utters as it leaps upon its prey.
It was the articulation of a whole life
of hatred that had come to a crisis at
last—of deadly and terrible triumph
after a whole decade of waiting. If
Dave had discerned that cry in time he
would have hurled Linda from his arms
to leap into a position of defense. The
desire for women In men goes down to
the roots of the world, but self-preser
vation is a deeper instinct still.
But he didn’t hear it in time. El
mira had not struck with her knife.
Tiie distance was too far for that. But
she swung her cane with all her force.
The blow caught the man at the tem
ple, his arms fell away from the girl's
body, lie staggered grotesquely in the
carpet of pin needles. Then he fell
face downward.
“His belt, quick!” the woman cried.
No longer was her voice that of de
crepit age. Tiie giri struggled with
herself, wrenched back her self-con
trol, and leaped to obey her aunt. They
snatched the man’s belt from about his
waist, and the women locked it swiftly
about iiis ankles. With strong, hard
hands they drew his wrists back of
him and tied them tight with the long i
bandanna handkerchief he wore about
his neck. They worked almost in si
lence, with incredible rapidity and
deftness.
The man was waking now, stirring
in his unconsciousness, and swiftly tiie
old woman cut the buckskin thongs
from his tall logging boots. These also
she twisted about the wrists, knotting
them again and again, and pulling them
so tight they were almost buried in
the lean flesh. Then they turned him
face upward to the moon.
The two women stood an Instant,
breathing hard. “What now?” Linda
asked. And a shiver of awe went over
her at the sight of the woman’s face.
"Nothing more, Linda,” she an
swered, in a distant voice. “Leave
Dave Turner to me.”
It was a strange picture. Woman
hood—the softness and tenderness
which inen have learned to associate
with the name—seemed fallen away
from Linda and Elmira. They were
only avengers—like the she-bear thnt
tights for her cubs or the she-wolf that
guards the lair. There was no more
mercy in them than in the females of
the lower species.
Dave awakened. They saw him stir.
They watched him try to draw his
arms from behind him. It was just a
faint, little-understanding pull at first.
Then he wrenched and tugged with all
his strength, flopping strangely in the
dirt. The effort increased until it was
some way suggestive of an animal In
’ the death struggle—a fur bearer dying
in the trap.
Terror was upon him. It was In his
wild eyes and his moonlit face; It was
in the desperation and frenzy of his
struggles. And the two women saw
it and smiled Into each other’s eyes.
Slowly his efforts ceased. He lay
still In the pine needles. He turned
his head, first toward Linda, then to
the inscrutable, dark face of the old
woman. As understanding came to
him, the cold drops emerged upon his
swarthy skin.
“Good G—d I” he asked. “What are
you going to do?”
“I’m going back," Linda answered.
“You had some other purpose In bring
ing me out here—or you wouldn’t have
brought Elmira, too. I’m going back
to wait for Bruce.”
“And you and I will linger here,”
Elmira told him. “We have many
things to say to each other. We have
many things to do. About my Abner
—there are many things you’ll want to
hear of him.”
The last vestige of the man’s spirit
broke beneath the words. Abner had
been old Elmira’s son—a youth who
had laughed often, and the one hope
of the old woman’s declining years.
And he had fallen before Dave’s am
bush in a half-forgotten fight of long
years before.
The man shivered in his bonds. Lin
da turned to go. The silence of the
wilderness deepened about them. “Oh,
Linda, Linda,” the man called. “Don’t
leave me. Don’t leave me here with
her!” he pleaded. “Please—please
don’t leave me In this devil’s power.
Make her let me go.”
But Linda didn’t seemed to hear.
The brush crackled and rustled; and
the two—this dark-hearted man and
the avenger—were left together.
CHAPTER XVIII
The homeward Journey over the
ridges had meant only pleasure to
Bruce. The days had been full of
little nerve-tingling adventures, and
the nights full of peace. And beyond
all these, there was the hope of seeing
Linda again at the end of the trail.
It was strange how he remembered
her kiss. He had known other kisses
in his days—being a purely rational
and healthy young man—but there had
been nothing of Immortality about
them. Their warmth had died quickly,
and they had been forgotten. They
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 192?
were Just delights of moonlight nights
and nothing more. But he would wake
up from his dreams at night to feel
Linda’s kiss upon his lips. To recall
It brought a strange tenderness —a
softening of all the hard outlines of
his picture of life.
But aside from his con temptation a
of Linda, the long tramp had many de
lights for him. He rejoiced in every
manifestation of the wild life about
him, whether It was a buShy-taiied old
gray squirrel, watching him from a
tree limb, a magpie trying Its best to
Insult him, or the fleeting glimpse of a
deer in the coverts. But he didn’t see
the Killer again. He didn’t particularly
care to do so.
Both days of the journey home he
wakened sharply at dawn. The cool
morning hours were the best for travel’
He was of naturally strong physique,
and although the days fatigued him un
mercifully, he always wakened re
freshed in the dawn. At noon he would
stop to lunch, eating a few pieces of
Jerkey and frying a single flapjack In
his skillet. And usually, during the
noon rest, he would practice with his
rifle.
He knew that if he were to fight the
Turners, skill with a rifle was an ab
solute necessity; such skill as would
have felled the grizzly with one shot
instead of administering merely a flesh
wound, accuracy to take off the head
of a grouse at fifty yards and at the
same time, an ability to swing and
alm the weapon in the shortest possi
ble space of time. The only thing that
retarded him was the realization that
he must not waste too many car
tridges. Elmira had brought him only
a small supply.
He would walk all afternoon—going
somewhat easier and resting more of
ten than In the morning; and these
were the times that he appreciated a
fragment of Jerked venison He would
halt Just before nightfall make his
camp.
And the best hour of nil was after
his meal, as be sat In the growing
shadows with his pipe. At this hour
he felt the spirit of the pines as never
before. He knew their great, brood
ing sorrow, their infinite wisdom, their
Inexpressible aloofness with which
they kept watch over the wilderness.
The smoke would drift about him In
soothing clouds; the glow of the coals
was red and warm over him. He could
think then. Life revealed some of its
lesser mysteries to him. And he be
gan to glimpse the distant gleam of
even greater truths, and sometimes It
seemed to him that he could almost
catch and hold them. Always it was
some message that the pines were try
ing to tell him —partly In words they
made when their limbs rubbed togeth
er, partly In the nature of a great alle
gory of which their dark, impassive
forms were the symbols. If he **ould
only see clearly! But It seemed to him
that passion blinded his eyes. More
and more he realized thnt the pines,
like the stars. were living symbols of
great powers who lived above the
world, powers thnt would speak to
men if they would but listen long and
patiently enough, and in whose creed
lay happiness.
The last afternoon he traveled hard.
He wanted to reach Linda's house be
fore nightfall. But the trnll was too
long for that. The twilight fell, to
find him still a weary two miles dis
tant. And the wny was quite dark
when he plunged Into the south pas
ture of the Hoss estates.
Half an hour later he was beneath
the Sentinel Pine. He wandered why
Linda was not waiting beneath it; in
bls fancy, he thought of It ns being
the ordained place for her But per
haps she hud merely failed to hear his
footsteps. He called Into the open
door.
“Linda," he said. “I’ve come hack.”
No answer reached him. The worth
rang through the silent rooms and
echoed back to him. He walked over
the threshold.
A chair In the front room was turned
over. His heart leaped at the sight
of It. “Linda,” he called In alarm,
“where are you? It’s Bruce.”
He stood an Instant listening, a
great fear creeping over him. Ho
called once more, first to Linda and
then to the old woman. Then he
leaped through the doorway.
The kitchen was similarly deserted.
From there he went to Linda’s room.
Her coat and hat lay on the bed, but
there was no Linda to stretch her arms
to him. He started to go out the way
he had come, but went Instead to hH
own room. A sheet of note-paper lay
on the bed.
It had been scrawled hurriedly; but
although he had never received a writ
ten word frvln Linda he did nut doubt
but that it was hrr hand:
"The Turners are coming—l caught
a glimpse of them on the ridge. There
Is no use of my trying to resist, so I’ll
wait for them in the front room and
maybe they won’t find this note. They
will take me to Simon's house, and
I know from Its structure thnt they
will lock me In an Interior room In
the east wing. Use the window on that
side nearest the north corner. My one
hope is thnt you will come at once to
save me.”
Bruce’s eyes leaped over the page;
then he thrust It Into his pocket. H»
slipped through the rear door of the
house, into the shadows.
“Linda,” he said again. “It’s
Bruce. Are you here?”
cru us cu.vfi.'t'bu)
His Mystery.
“It’s queer,” remarked Jinks.
“What is?” asked Binks.
“Thnt with all the people looking
for and borrowing trouble I can’t get
rid of mine,” replied Jinks. —Dstruit
Free Press.