The Cody enterprise and the Park County enterprise., October 18, 1922, Page PAGE SIX, Image 6

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

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PAGE SIX
CThe STRERQTH of the PIRES
THE KILLER CHEATED
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 banting recol
lections 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 Bruce gets to Simon Turner.
Leaving the 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, y tile 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 out in search
of a trapper named Hudson, a wit
ness to the agreement between
Linda's father and Matthew Fol
ger. A gigantic grizzly, known as
the Killer, Is the terror of the vi
cinity. Dave 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. Dave de
coys Linda and Aunt Elmira from
their home. The man insults Linda
and is struck down by the aged
woman. Elmira’s son has been
murdered by Dave, and at her com
mand, after securely binding the
desperado, Linda leaves them alone.
Returning, Bruce finds a note, ap
parently from Linda, telling him
she has been kidnaped by the
Turners. Bruce falls into Simon’s
trap, and is made prisoner. Charg
ing Bruce with attempting to re
open the blood-feud, the clan
leaves him, bound, in a pasture on
the spot where the Killer had slain
and half eaten a calf the night be
fore. Bruce, helpless, awaits ar
rival Os the Killer and death. Si
mon makes Linda an offer of mar
riage. The girl refuses, telling him
she loves Bruce. Enraged, the man
brutally strikes her and leaves,
CHAPTER XXII— Continued.
—9—
But the curtain of this drama in the
mountain home had not yet rung down.
Half-unconscious, she listened to his
steps. He was out in the moonlight,
vanishing among the trees. Strange
fancies swept her, all In the smallest
fraction of an instant, and a voice
spoke clearly. With all the strength
of her will she dispelled the mists of
dawning unconsciousness that the pain
had wrought and crept swiftly to the
little desk placed against the wall. Her
hand fumbled in the shadow behind it
and brought out a glittering rifle. Then
she crept to the open doorway.
Lying on the floor, she raised the
weapon to her shoulder. Her thumb
pressed back, strong and unfaltering,
against the diammer: and she heard it
click as it sprung into place. Then
she looked along the barrel until she
saw the swinging form of Simon
through the sights.
There was no remorse in that cold
gaze of hers. The wings of death
hovered over the man, ready to swoop
down. Her Angers curled tighter
about the trigger. One ounce more
pressure, and Simon’s track of wicked
ness and bloodshed would have come
to an end at last. But at that instant
her eyes widened with the dawn of an
Idea.
She knew this man. She knew the
hatred that was upon him. And she
realized, as if by an inspiration from
on High, that before he went to his
house to sleep lie would go once more
into the presence of Bruce, confined
somewhere among these-ridges and
Buffering the punishment of having
opposed his will. Simon would want
one look to see how his plan was get
ting on; perhaps he would want to ut
ter one taunting word. And Linda
saw her chance.
She dropped the rifle and darted
Into her own room. There she pro
cured n weapon that she trusted more,
her little pistol, loaded with six cart
ridges.
If she had understood the real na
ture of the danger that Bruce faced
Rhe would have retained the rifle. It.
Rhot with many times the smashing
power v>f the little gun, and at long
range was many times ns accurate, but
even -it would have seemed an inef
fective defense against such an enemy
as was even now creeping toward
Bruce’s body. But she knew that in a
crisis, against such of the Turners as
she thought she might have to face, it
would serve her much better than the
more awkward heavier weapon. Be
sides. she knew how to wield It, and
all her life she had kept It for just
such on emergency.
The pain of the blow was quite gone
now. except for a strange sickness that
hud encompassed her. But she was
never colder of nerve and surer of
muscle. Cunningly she lay down
again before she crept through the
door, so that if Simon chanced to look
about he would fail to see that she
followed him. She crept to the thick
ets, then stood up. Three hundred
yards down the slope she could see
Simon’s dimming figure in the moon
light, and swiftly she sped after him.
CHAPTER XXIII
The shadow that Bruce saw at the
edge of the forest could not be mis
taken as to identity. The hopes that
he had held before —that this stalking
figure might be that of a deer or an
elk —could no longer be entertained.
Men, as a rule, do not love the wild
and wailing sobs of a coyote, as he
looks down upon a camp fire from the
ridge above. Sleep does not come eas
ily when a gaunt wolf walks in. a slow,
inquisitive circle about the pallet,
scarcely a leaf rustling beneath his
feet. And a few times, in the history
of the frontier, men have had queer
tlnglings nnd creepings jn the scalp
when they have happened to glance
over their shoulders nnd see. the eyes
Qf a great, tawny puma glowing an
odd blue in the firelight. Yet, Bruce
would have had any one of these, or
all three together, in preference to the
Killer.
The reason was extremely simple.
No words have ever been capable of
expressing the depths of cowardice of
which a c • ote is capable. He will
whine nnd weep about a enmp, like a
souj lost between two but if
he is In his right mind he would have
each one of his gray hairs plucked out.
one by one, rather than attack a man.
The cunning breed to which he belongs
has found out that It doesn’t pay. The
wolf is sometimes disquietingly brave
when he is fortified by his pack breth
ren in the winter, but in such a season
as this he is particularly careful to
keep out of the sight of man. And the
Tawny One himself, white-fanged and
long-clawed and powerful as he is,
never gets farther than certain dread
ful, speculative dreams.
But none of these was true of the
Killer. He had already shown his
scorn of men. His very stride showed
that he feared no living creature that
shared the forest with him. In fact,
he considered himself the forest mas
ter. The bear is never a particularly
timid animal, and whatever timidity
the Killer possessed was as utterly
gone as yesterday’s daylight.
Bruce watched him with unwinking
eyes. It might be that the Killer would
fall to discern his outline. Bruce had
no conscious knowledge, as yet, that
It is movement rather than form to
which the eyes of the wild creatures
are most receptive. But he acted up
on that fact now as if by instinct. He
was not lying in quite the exact spot
where the Killer had left his dead the
preceding night, and possibly his out
line was not enough like it to attract
the grizzly’s attention. Besides, in the
intermittent light, it was wholly pos
sible that the grizzly would try to find
the remains of his feast by smell
alone; and if this were lacking, and
Bruce made no movements to attract
his attention, he might wander away
in search of other game.
For the first time in his life, Bruce
knew Fear as it really was. It is a
knowledge that few dwellers in cities
can possibly have; and so few times has
it really been experienced in these days
of civilization that men havh mostly
forgotten what it is like. If they ex
perience it at all, it is usually only In
a dream that arises from the germ
plasm—a nightmare to paralyze the
muscles and chill the heart and freeze
a man in his bed. The moon was
strange and white as it slipped in and
out of the clouds, and the forest, mys
terious as Death Itself, lightened nnd
darkened alternately with a strange
effect of unreality; but for all that,
Bruce could not make himself believe
that this was just a dream. The
dreadful reality remained that the
Killer, whose name nnd works he
knew, was even now investigating him
from the shadows one hundred feet
away.
The feur that came to him was that
of the young world —fear without rec
ompense, direct and primitive fear
that grew on him like a sickness. It
was the fear that the deer knew ns
they crept down their dusky trails at
night; it was the fear of darkness
ami silence and pain and heaven
knows what cruelty that would be vis
ited upon him by those terrible rend
ing fangs and claws. It was the fear
that can be heard in the pack song in
the dreadful winter season, and that
can be felt in strange overtones, in the
sobbing wail of despair that the coyote
utters in the half-darkness. He had
been afraid for his life every moment
he was in the hands of the Turners.
He knew that If he surfrlvcd this night,
he would have to face death again.
He had no hopes of deliverance alto
gether. But the Turners were men,
and they w’orked with knife blade and
bullet, not rending fang and claw. He
could face men bravely; but it was
hard to keep a strong heart in the face
of this ancient fear of beasts.
The Killer seemed disturbed and
moved slowly along the edge of the
moonlight. Bruce could trace his
movements by the irregularity in the
line of shadows. He seemed to be
moving more cautiously than ever,
now. Bruce could not hear the slight
est sound.
For an instant he bad an exult-
Bij
EDISON MARSHALL
Author oj
“The Voice of the Pack"
Copyright by Little, Brown, and Co.
ant hope that the bear would continue
on down the edge of the forest and
leave him; and his heart stood still
as the great beast paused, sniffing.
But some smell In the air seemed to
reach him, and he came stealing back.
In reality, the Killer was puzzled.
He had come to this place straight
through the forest with the expecta
tion that food —flesh to tear with his
fangs—would be waiting for him. And
now, as he waited at the border of
the darkness, he knew that a strode
change had taken place. And the
Killer did not like strangeness.
The smell that he had expected had
dimmed to such an extent that it pro
moted no muscular Impulse. Perhaps
it was only obliterated by a stranger
smell—one that was vaguely familiar
and wakened a slow, brooding anger
in his great beast’s heart.
He was not timid; yet he retained
some of his natural caution and re
mained in the gloom while he made
his Investigations. Probably it was a
hunting instinct alone. He crept slow
ly up and down the border of moon
light, and his anger seemed to grow
and deepen within him. He felt dimly
that he had been cheated out of his
meal. And once before he had been
similarly cheated; but there had been
singular triumph at the end of that
experience.
All at once a movement, far across
the pasture, caught his Attention. It
seemed that some one had come, taken
one glance at the drama at the edge
of the forest, and had departed.
Bruce himself had not seen the figure;
and perhaps It was the mercy of Fate
—not usually merciful —that he did
not. He might have been caused to
hope again, only to know a deeper
despair when the man left him with
out giving aid. For the tall form had
been that of Simon coming, as Linda
had anticipated, for a moment’s In
spection of his handiwork. And see
ing that it was good, he had depart
ed again.
The grizzly watched him go, then
turned back to his questioning regard
of the strange, dark figure that lay
so prone In the grass in front. The
darkness dropped over him as the
moon went behind a heavy patch of
cloud.
And In that moment the Killer un
derstood. He remembered now. Pos
sibly the upright form of Simon had
suggested it to him; possibly the wind
had only blown straighter and thus
permitted him to identify the troubling
smells. All at once a memory flashed
over him —of a scene In a distant glen,
and sinfliar tall figures that tried to
drive him from his food. He had
charged then, struck once, nnd one
of the forms had lain very still. He
remembered the pungent, maddening
odor that had reached him after his
blow had gone home. Most clearly of
all, he remembered how his claws had
struck and sunk.
He knew this strange shadow now.
It was just another of that tall breed
he had learned to hate, and it waS sim
ply lying prone as his foe had done
after the charge beside Little river. In
i • *
The Blade Glittered; but Linda Was
Afraid to Look at It Closely.
fact, the still-lying form recalled the
other occasion with particular vivid
ness. The excitement that he had felt
before returned to him now; he re
membered his disappointment when
the whistling bullets from the hillside
above had driven him from his dead.
But there were no whistling bullets
now. Except for them, there would
have been further rapture beside that
stream; but he might have It now.
The old hunting madness came back
to him. It was fair game, tills that
lay so still in the grass, just as the
body of the calf had been and just
ns the warm body of Hudson In the
distant glen.
The wound at his aide gave him n
twinge of pain. It served to make hl.»
memories all the clearer. The lurid
lights grew in hia eyes. Rage swept
over him.
i But he didn't charge blindly. He re-
talned enough of his hunting caution
to know that to stalk was the proper
course. He moved farther out from
the edge of the forest. f
At that instant the moon came out
and revealed him, all too vividly, to
Bruce. The Killer’s great gray figure
In the sliver light was creeping to
ward him across the silvered grass.
• ••••••
When Linda left her house, her first
realisation was the need of caution. It
would not do to let Simon see her.
And she knew that only her long train
ing In the hills, her practice in climb
ing the winding trails, would enable
her to keep pace with the fast-walking
man without being seen.
In her concern for Bruce, Linda had
completely forgotten the events of the
earlier part of the evening. Wild and
stirring though they were, they now
seemed to her as Incidents of remote
years, nothing to be remembered -in
this hour of crisis. But she remem
bered them vividly when, two hundred
yards from the house, she saw two
strange figures coming toward her be
tween the moonlit tree trunks.
There was very little of reality
about either. The foremost figure
was bent and strange, but she knew
that It could be no one but telmlra.
The second, however —half-obscured
behind her—offered no Interpretation
of outline at all at first. But at the
turn of the trail she saw both figures
In vivid profile. Elmira was coming
homeward, bent over her cane, and
she led a saddled horse by its bridle
rein.
Still keeping Simon In sight, Linda
ran swiftly toward her. She didn’t
understand the deep awe that stole
over her—an emotion that even her
fear for Bruce could not transcend.
There was a quality In Elmira’s face
apd posture that she had never seen
before. It was as if she were walking
in rfer sleep, she came with such a
strange heaviness and languor, her
cane creeping through the pine needles
of the trail in front. She did not
seem to be aware of Linda’s approach
until the girl was only ten feet dis
tant Then she looked up, and Linda
saw the moonlight on her face.
She saw something else too, but she
didn’t know what it was. Her own
eyes widened. The thin lips were
drooping, the eyes looked as if she
were asleep. The face was a strange
net of wrinkles in the soft light. Ter
rible emotions had but recently died
and left their ashes upon it. But Linda
knew that this was no time to stop
and wonder and ask questions.
“Give me the horse,” she command
ed. “I’m going to help Bruce.”
“You can have it,” Elmira answered
In an unfamiliar vcflce. “It’s the horse
that —that Dave Turner rode here —
and he won’t want him any more.”
Linda took the rein, passed it over
the horse’s head, and started to swing
into the saddle. Then she turned with
a gasp as the woman slipped some
thing into her hand.
Linda looked down and saw it was
the hilt of the knife that Elmira had
carried with her when the two women
had gone with Dave into the woods.
The blade glittered: but Linda was
afraid to look at it closely. “You
might need that, too,” the old woman
said. “It may be wet —I can’t remem
ber. But take It, anyway.”
Linda hardly heard. She thrust the
blade Into the leather of the saddle,
then swung on the horse.
She rode swiftly until she began to
fear Simon might hear the hoof beat
of her mount; then she drew up to
a w’alk. And when she had crested
the hill and had followed down its
long slope into the glen, the moon
went under the clouds for the first
time.
She lost sight of Simon at once.
Seemingly Ler effort to save Bruce had
come to nothing, after all. But she
didn’t turn back. There w’ere light
patches in the sky, and the moon
might shine forth again.
She followed down the trail toward
the e>iired lands that the Turners cul
tivated. She went to their very edge.
It was a rather high point, so she
waited here for the moon to emerge
again. Never, It seemed to her. Jmd it
moved so slowly. But all at once its
light flowed forth over the land.
Her eyes searched the distant
spaces, but she could catch no glimpse
of Simon between the trees. Evl
derl’y he no longer walked in the
dlr*, ion of the house. Then she looked
out over the tilled lands.
Almost a quarter of a mile away
she saw the flicker of a miniature
shadow. Only the vivid quality of the
moonlight, against which any shadow
was clear-cut and sharp, enabled her to
discern It at all. It was Simon, and
evidently his business had taken him
Into the meadows. Feeling that she
was on the right track at last, she
urged her horse forward again, keep
ing to the shadow of the timber at
first.
Simon walked almost parallel to the
dark fringe for nearly a mile; then
turned off Into the tilled lands. She
rode opposite him and reined In the
horse to watch.
When the distance had almost ob
scured him, she saw him stop. He
waited a long time, then turned back.
The moon went In and out of the
clouds. Then, trusting to the distance
to conceal her, Linda rode slowly out
Into the clearing.
Simon re-entered the timber, his In
spection seemingly done, and Linda
still rode in the general direction he
had gone. A curious sense of Im
pending events came over her a« she
headed on toward the distant wall of
forest beyond.
Then, the clouds slowly dimming un
der the moon, the light grew with al
mpst Imperceptible encroachments. At
first It was only bright enough to
show her ow’n dim shadow on the
grass. The utter gloom that was over
the fields lessened and drew away like
receding curtains; her vision reached
ever farther, the shadows grew more
clearly outlined and distinct. Then
the moon rolled forth into a wholly
open patch of sky—a white sphere
with a sprinkling of vivid stars around
it—and the silver radiance poured
down.
It was like the breaking of dawn.
The fields stretched to Incredible dis
tances about her. The forest beyond
emerged in distinct outline; she could
see every Irregularity in the plain.
And In one Instant’s glance she knew
that she had found Bruce.
His situation went home to her In
one sweep of the eyes. Bruce was
not alone. Even now a great, tower
ing figure was creeping toward him
from the forest. Linda cried out,
and with the long strap of her rein
lashed her L%rse Into the fastest pace
It knew.
Bruce did not hear her come. Re
lay In the soft grass, waiting for
death. A great calm had come upon
him; a strange, quiet strength that the
pines themselves might have lent to
him; and he made no cry. In this
dreadful last moment of despair the
worst of his terror had gone and left
his thoughts singularly clear. And
but one desire was left to him: that
the Killer might be merciful and end
his existence with one blow.
It was not a great deal to ask for;
but he knew’ perfectly that only by the
mercy of the forest gods could it come
to pass. They are usually not so kind
to the dying; and It is not the wild
animal way to take pains to kill at
the first blow. Yet his eyes held
straight. The Killer crept slowly
toward him, more and more of his
vast body was revealed above the tall
heads of the grass. And now all that
Bruce knew was a great wonder —a
strange expectancy and awe of what
the opening gates of darkness would
reveal.
The Killer moved with dreadful
slowness and deliberation. He was no
longer afraid. It was just as It had
been before—a warm figure lying still
and helpless fdr his own terrible pleas
ure. A few more steps and he would
be near enough to see plainly; then
—after the grizzly habit—to fling Into
the charge. He paused, his muscles
setting. And then the meadows sud
denly rang with the undulations of
Ids snarl.
Almost unconscious, Bruce did not
understand what had caused his utter
ance. But strangely, the bear had lift
ed his head and was staring straight
over him. For the first time Bruce
heard the wild beat of hoofs on the
turf behind him.
He didn't have time to turn and
look. There was no opportunity even
for a flood of renewed hope. Events
followed upon one another with star
tling rapidity. The sharp, unmistak
able crack of a pistol leaped through
the dusk, and a bullet sung over his
body. And then a wild-riding figure
swept up to him.
It was Linda, firing ns she came.
How she had been able to control her
horse and ride him into that scene
of peril no words may reveal. Per
haps, running wildly beneath the lash,
his starting eyes did not discern or In
terpret the gray figure scarcely a score
of yards distant from Bruce; and It
is true the grizzly’s pungent smell —
a thing to terrify much more and to
be Interpreted more clearly than any
kind of dim form in the moonlight—
was blown In the opposite direction.
Perhaps the lashing strap recalled the
terrible punishment the horse had un
dergone earlier that evening nt the
hands of Simon and no room was left
for any lesser terror. But most likely
'of all, just as in the case of brave
soldiers riding their horses into bat
tle, the girl’s own strength and cour
age went Into him.
The bear rcr.red up, snarling with
wrath, but for a moment it dared not
charge. * The sudden appearance of
tho girl and the hnrse held him mo
mentarily nt bay. The girl swung to
the ground In one leap, fired again,
thrust her arm through the loop of
the bridle rein, then knelt at Bruce’s
side. The white blade that she car
ried in her left hand slashed at his
bonds.
The horse, plunging, seemed to jerk
her body back and forth, and endless
seconds seemed to go by before the
last of the thongs was severed. In
reality the whole rescue was unbeliev
ably swift. The man helped her nil
he could. “Up—up Into the saddle,”
she commanded. The grizzly growled
again, advancing remorselessly toward
them, and twice more she fired. Two
of the bullets went home in his great
body, but their weight and shocking
power were too slight to affect him.
He went down once more on all fours,
preparing to charge.
Bruce, in spite of the fact that his
limbs had been nearly paralyzed by
the tight bonds, managed to grasp the
saddlehorn. In the strength of new
born hope he pulled himself half up
on It, and he felt Linda’s strong arras
behind him pushing up. The horse
plunged in deadly fear; and the Killer
leaped toward them. Once more the
pistol cracked. Then the horse broke
and ran In a frenzy of terror.
Bruce was full In the saddle by then,
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 18, lgg g
and even at the first leap his am,
swept out to the girl or, the
beside him. He swung her tow" i
him, and at the same time her I, ~.,,,
caught at the arching hack of th. ,
saddle. For the first fifty feet K \ w jf
was half dragged, but slowly—
Bruce's help—she pulled herself U t>
to a position of security. p
The Killer's charge had come a few
seconds too late. For a moment he
racer! behind them In Insane fury b Jlt
only bls savage growl leaped through
the darkness fust enough to catch uu
with them. And the distance slowly
widened. 3
The Killer had been cheated again
nnd by the same token Simon's oath
had been proved untrdt. For once the
remorseless strength of which he boast
ed had been worsted by a greater
strength ; and love, not bate, was the
power that gave It. For once a girl's
courage—a courage greater than that
with which he obeyed the dictates of
his cruel will—had cost him his vic
tory. The war that he and his out-K.
law band hnd begun so long ago
not yet been won. f *
Indeed, if Simon could have se<a
what the moon saw as It peered out
from behind the clouds, he would have
known that one of the debts of blood
Incurred so many years ago hud even
now been paid. Far away on a dis
tant hillside there was one who gave
J
For the First Fifty Feet She Was Hall
Dragged.
no heed to the fast hoof beats of the
speeding horse. It was Dave Turner,
nnd his trail of lust and wickedness
was ended nt last. He lay with lifted
face, nnd there were curious dark
stains on the pine needles.
And the pines, those tall, dark sen
tinels of the wilderness, seemed to
look down upon him in passionless con
templation, as if they wondered at the
stumbling ways of rpen. Their branches
rubbed together and mnde words as
the wind swept through them, but no
man may say what those words were.
BOOIT THREE
COMING OF THE STRENGTH
CHAPTER XXIV
Fall was at hand nt Trail’s End.
The spirit of nutumn had come with
golden wings.
A buck deer—a noble creature with
six points on his spreading horns —got
the first inkling of < when he stopped
at a spring to drink. The air had
been chill in his nostrils, but thanks
to a heavy growth of hnlr that —with
mysterious foresight—had begun to
come upon his body, it gave him no
discomfort. But it was a puzzling and
significant thing thnt the water he bent
to drink had been transformed to
something hard nnd white and burn
ing cold to the tip of his nose.
It was the first real freeze. True,
for the past few nights there hnd been
a measure of tinkling, cobweb frost
on the ground In wet places, but even
the tender-skinned birds —always most
watchful of signs of this kind —hnd
disregarded it. But there was no dis
regarding this half-inch of blue Ice
thnt hnd covered the spring. The buck
deer struck It nngrlly with his front
hoofs, broke through nnd drank; then
went snorting up the hill.
His anger was in Itself a significant
thing. In the long, easy-going summer
days, Blacktail had almost forgotten
what anger was like. He had been
content to roam over the ridges, crop
ping the leaves nnd grass, avoiding
danger and growing fat. But all at
once this kind of existence had palled
on him. He felt that he wanted only
one thing—not food or drink, or safe
ty—but a good, slashing, hooking, hoof
enrving buttle with another buck of
his own species. An unwonted cross
ness had come nnd his soft
eyes burned with a blue fire. He re
membered the does, too —with a mid
den leap of his blood —nnd wondered
where they were-keeping themselves.
Being only a beast he did not know
that this new belligerent spirit was
just as much a sign of fall as the soft
blush that was coming on the leaves.
The simple fact wns that fall means
the beginning of the rut —the wild mat- •,
Ing days when the bucks battle among
themselves and choose their harems of
does.
Bruce and Linda, facing more
trouble, decide never to yield.
(TO BB CONTINUED.)