m
Local News of the Week.
8aa8«t8S8ga8ta«$ia»iaa*i»gi»gg«»sly
Old papers at the Newsoffice.
R. E. Nash was at El Dorado on
business Tuesday.
Dr. W. H. Reagan is home from
a trip to Florida.
Wash Defee transacted business
at El Dorado last Saturday.
F. W. Scott transacted business
at El Dorado Wednesday.
V. C. Seaman visited his wife
and daughter at Monroe last Sun
day. _
Miss Clyde Pitts was at Monroe
where she underwent an operation
this week.
Mrs. Efhe Williams of Cecil, La.,
was here Tuesday the guest of
Mrs J. C. Phillips.
Mrs. Arthur Townsend left last
Sunday for Arkansas City where
she will join her husband.
Wm. Perritt and wife of Strong
visited their sons, J. W. and Harris,
here Tuesday.
1 have a mixed car of Cotton,
Corn and Truck Fertilize for sale.
See S. R. Neel, Huttig, Ark.
Mrs. B. F. Moody and children
arrived home Sunday from a visit
with relatives in Little Rock,
Miss Lula Harrington visitec
friends and relatives at Bastrop.
La., last Sunday.
Ladies, when you have that tirec
lazy feeling, dull headache, or suf
fer from nervousness take Femi
nena. __ 5
Rev. S. K. Burnett was called to
Benton Monday to preach the
funeral of a cousin who died there
Sunday, _
Miss Lucile Nipper arrived home
Sunday afternoon from the St.
Louis markets and a visit with rel
atives at Perry, Mo,
Mr. and Mrs. Joe Freeman cf
Sadie, La , are the proud parents
o’a fi: e little girl, bn to them
last Sunday morning.
G. A. Woodall of Shreveport wa;
here the first of the week visiting
his sister, Mrs. T. F. Ashcroft, and
family. _
Mrs. D. F. Collett ard children
have moved here from El Dorado
and are living in the house they
formerly lived in on A street.
G. W. Hamaker and wife passed
through here Sunday returning tc
Camp No. 4 from Aurelle where
they had went on the sad missicr
of burying their baby.
We understand there is a certair
lady in Huttig that’s been wanting
to wear her husband's trousers fci
the past nine years, and the other
day she succeeded in wearing his
entire suit.
COLDS & LaGRIPPE
5 or 0 doses 666 will break
any case of Chills & Fever, Colds
& LaGrippe; it acts on the liver
better than Calomel and does not
gripe or sicken. Price 25c.
The Canadian Minister of Jus
tice announced in the House of
Commons at Ottawa that Canada
has 50,324 German and Austrian
prisoners of war. Most of them
have been registered and released
on parole, but 1904 are in prison
camps. __
To inspect one little postoffice,
where the postmaster's salary is
only $125 per year, U. S. Post
office Inspector E. P. Smith ol
Washington is making a journey of
more than 20,000 miles. The
postoffice is on the island of Guam,
one of the spoils of our war with
Spain. The law requires inspec
tions at intervals.
A complete count of the victims
of the late earthquake in Italy has
now been made. The number of
dead is semi-officially stated as
24.203. Nearly 24,000 were in
the province of Aquila, and 32 in
Rome. The most terrible loss of
life was in the town of Avezzano,
where, of 10,719 inhibitants, 96
per cent perished.
PROFANITY PREVENTERS
Magnetised latch keys that will al
ways find the lock.
A self-returning umbrella that can
not be lost or stolen.
Oarden hose that will shut Itself off
Just before It bursts under you.
Rocking chairs that will flash a light
Just before you fall over them In the
dark.
Bridge whist hands that will play |
themselves so that you cannot possi
bly lose.
Player pianos belonging to neigh
bors that will muffle themselves when
they become objectionable.
_
Automobile tires that will blow a
horn just before they come to an up
turned tack or a broken bottle.
Collars and shirt bosoms that auto
matically restarch and Iron themselves
Just before wilting on a hot man on a
hot day.
Sensitized newspapers that become
perfectly blank when you begin read
ing an article that Is going to make
you mad.
QUAKER QUIPS
It isn't always the love of music that
prompts a man to blow his own horn
The Ins and outs of love consist
principally of falling In and having a
falling out.
You never can tell. Many a shallow
mind has been concealed behind a
deep voice.
Everything In life seems to have
some use except the vermiform ap
pendix and some men.
The average woman Is eager to
stand up for her rights until she finds
herself In a crowded car
Blobbs—"I just saw Mrs. Dashaway.
"he was dressed to kill.” Slobbs—
"Yes, she cut me dead."
Mistress (engaging new cook) —
"Have you any reference?" Cook
Lady—“Dozens av thlm, mum; dozens
av thlm.”—Philadelphia Record.
LUKE M’LUKE SAYS
The boss never raises your salary’
lor what you Intended to do.
Once In a while a woman gets so fat
that the only thing she can buy ready
made is an umbrella.
It is hard to please a woman. If
vou are good to your wife she begins
o suspect that you are too good to be
true.
FAMILY MEDICAL GUIDE
GIVEN FREE TO SUBSCRIBERS
Prominent, physicians have esti
mated that 68 per cent of the cases
of sickness in America could be
prevented if there was a more wide
spread knowledge of practical medi
cine.
The majority of us, up-to-date in
everything else, obey the same rules
of health that were the fruits of
popular superstition in those days
when practically nothing was known
about preventive medicine.
In the hopes that people will be
gin to see how important it is that
they learn a little more about the
ailments of the body, a practical
medical guide is offered to all the
readers of this paper Free of Cost.
The name of this work is Dr.
Miles’ Family Medical Guide. It is
a work that has been very carefully
compiled. It has been written in
very plain language, omitting, when
not absolutely necessary, all tech
nical words and phrases.
It tells how to recognize various
ailments. It tells what to do before
the doctor arrives, or if he does not
arrive at all. It tells what to do
and what not to do in case of acci
dent. Ibjgives a few practical laws
of health. It tells of how to take
care of the sick room, of what to
eat, of how to care for infants and
other important details.
Send your name and address to
Family Medical Guide,
Miles Medical Co., Elkhart, Ind.,
mentioning the name of this paper
and you will receive one of these
valuable, books all charges prepaid.
^ GALL°ftfie
CUMBERLANDS
/& CHARLES NEVILLE BUCK,
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROAV PHOTOGRAPHS
OF SCENES LN THE PLAY -
COPYRIGHT 1QI>
w j, w/^tt 3, company
b YIMUI-'blb.
CHAPTER I—On Misery creek, at the
foot of a rock from which lie has fallen.
Sally Miller Dads George I.e.soutt, a land
scape painter, unconscious, and after re
viving him, goes for assistance.
CHAPTER II—Samson South and Sullx.
taking Lescott to Samson's home, ar< n,ei
by Spicer South, head of the family, who
tells them that Jesse Purvy has been shot,
and that Samson is suspected of the
crime. Samson denies it.
CHAPTER HI—The shooting of Jesse
Purvy breaks the truce In tile Hollman- i
South feud.
CH APTER IV—Ramson reproves Tama- !
rack Spicer for telling Sally that Jim
Hollman is on the trail with bloodhounds
hunting the man who shot Purvy,
CHAPTER V- The bloodhounds lose the [
trail at Spieer South’s door. I.escott riis- 1
covers artistic ability In Samson. While
sketching with I.escott on th. mountain.
Tamarack discover < Samson to a jeering
rowd of niountajni ers. Samson thrashes
him and denounces him as the "truce
buster" who shot Purvy.
CHAPTER VI—I.escott tries to per
suade Samson to go to New York with
him and develop his talent. Sallv, loyal
but heartbroken, furthers Ia scott’s efforts.
The dance at Wile McCager’s threatens
trouble to Samson and I.escott.
CHAPTER VII—At tlie dance Samson
(ells tlie South clan lie is going io leave
the mountains. I.escott goes home to
New York. Samson bids Spicer and Sally
farewell and follows.
CHAPTER IX—Prompted bv her love,
Sally teaches herself to write. Horton
throws himself into the business world
and becomes well hated by predatory
financiers and politicians. At a Bohemian
resort Samson meets William Earblsh,
tporty social parasite, and Horton’s ene
CHAPTER X—Xarbish sees Samson am
Drennie dining together unchaperoned at
the Wigwam roadhouse. He conspires
with others to make Horton jealous and
succeeds.
CHAPTER XT—Earblsh brings Norton
ami Samson together at the Krnmore
rlub’s shooting lodge, and forces an open
rupture, expecting Samson to kill Horton
arid so rid the political and financial thugs
of the crusader. Samson exposes the plot
and thrashes the conspirators.
The next afternoon Samson ran up
the street steps of the Lescott houso
and rang the bell, and a few moments
later Adrienne appeared. The car was
waiting outside, and, as the girl came
down the stairs in motor coat and
veil, she. paused and he.r fingers on the !
banister tightened in surprise as 3he
looked at the man who stood below
holding his hat in his hand, with his 1
face upturned. The well-shaped head
was no longer marred by the mane
which it had formerly worn, but was !
close cropped, and under the trans- |
forming influence of the change the
forehead seemed bolder and higher, j
and to her thinking the strength of
the purposeful features was enhanced. I
and yet, had she known it, the man
felt that he had for the first time sur \
rendered a point which meant an aban
donment of something akin to prin
She said nothing, but as slip took
his hand in greeting her fingers
pressed his own in handclasp more
lingering than usual.
Late that evening, when Samson re
turned to the studio, he found a mis
sive in his letter box, and, as he took
it out, his eyes fell on the postmark.
It was dated from Hixon, Kentucky
and, as the man slowly climbed the
stairs, he turned the envelope over in
his hand with a strange sense of mis
giving and premonition.
The letter was written in the
cramped hpnd of Brother Spencer.
Through its faulty diction ran a plain
ly discernible undernote of disapproval
for Samson, though there was no word
of reproof or criticism. It was plain
that it was sent as a matter of oour
tesy to one who, having proved an
apostate, scarcely merited such consid
eration. It informed him that old
Spicer South had been “mighty pore
ly,” but was now better, barring the
breaking of age. Everyone was “tol
erable.” Then came the announce
ment which the letter had been writ
ten to convey.
The term of the South-HoThnan truce
had ended, and it had been renewed
for an indefinite period.
“Some of your folks thought they
ought to let you know because they
promised to give you a say,” wrote
the informant. “But they decided that
it couldn't hardly make no difference
to you, since you have left the moun
tains, and if you cared anything about
it, you knew the time, and could of
been here. Hoping this finds you
well.”
Samson's face clouded. He threw
the soiled and scribbled missive down
on the table and sat with unseeing
eyes fixed on the studio wall. So, they
had cast him out of their councils!
They already thought of him as one
who had been. <
In that passionate rush of feeling
everything that had happened since
he had left Misery seemed artificial
and dreamlike. He longed for the
realities that vrere forfeited. He want
ed to press himself close to the great,
gray shoulders of rock that broke
through the greenery like giants tear
ing off soft raiment. Those were his
people back there. He should be run
ning with the wolf pack, not coursing
with beagles.
He had been telling himself that he
was loypl and now he realised that he '
was drifting like the lotus eaters. j
He rose and paced tlie floor, with
teeth and hands clenched and the
sweat standing out on his forehead.
His advisers had of late been urging
him to go to Paris. He had refused,
and his unconfessed reason had been
that in Paris he could not answer a
sudden call. lie would eo back to
them now and compel them to admit
his leadership.
Then his eyes fell on the unfinished
portrait of Adrienne. The face gazed
at him with ite grave sweetness; its
fragrant subtlety and its fine-grained
delicacy. Her pictured lips were si
lently arguing for the life he had
found among strangers, and her vic
tory would have been an easy one, but
for the fact that just now his con
science seemed to be on the other
side. Samson’s civilization was two
years old- —a thin veneer over a cen
tury of feudalism—and now the cen
turf was thundering its call of blood
bondage. But. as the inan struggled
over the dilemma, the pendulum
swung hack The hundred years had
left, also, a heritage of quickness and
bitterness to resent injury and injus j
tiee His own people had cast him \
u’ul. They had branded him as th®
His Eyes Fell on the Postmark.
deserter; they felt no need of him or [
his counsel. Very well, let them have i
it so. His problem had been settled
for him. His Gordian knot was cut.
Sally and hia uncle alone had his
address. This letter, casting him out,
must have been authorized by them,
Brother Spencer acting merely as j
amanuensis. They, too, tad repudi- ;
ated him- and, if that were true, ex- 1
cefit for the graves of bis parents, the
hills uad no tie to hold him.
"Sally, Sally!” he groaned, dropping
his face on his crossed arms, while
iiis shoulders heaved in an agony of
heartbreak, and hir words came in the.
old, crude syllables: "1 'lowed you'd
believe in me ef hell froze!” He rose
after that, and made a fierce gesture
with his clenched fists. “All right,”
he said, bitterly, “I'm shet of the lot
of ye. I’m done!”
But it was easier to say the words j
of repudiation than to cut the ties i
that were knotted about his heart.
With a rankling soul, the mountain
eer left New York. He wrote Sally a
brief note, telling her that he was go
ing to cross the ocean, but his hurt
pride forbade his pleading tor her con
fidence, or adding, ”1 love you.” He
plunged into the art life of the ‘‘other
side of the Seine,” and worked vora
ciously. He was trying to leara
nftich—and to forget much.
One sunny afternoon when Samson
had been in the Quartier Latin for 1
eight or nine months the concierge of j
his lodgings handed him. as he passed !
through the eour, an envelope ad- j
dressed in the hand of Adrienne Les-1
cott. As he road It he felt a glow of
pleasurable surprise, and, wheeling, tie
retraced his steps briskly to his lodg
ings, where he began to pack. Adri
enne had written that she ar.d her
mother and Wilfred Horton were sail
ing for Naples, and commanded him,
unless he were too busy, to meet their
steamer. Within two hours he was
bound for Lucerne to cross the Italian
frontier by the slate-blue waters of
Hake Maggiore
A few weeks later Samson and Ad
rienne were standing together by
moonlight in the ruins of the Coli
seum. The junketing about Italy had
been charming, and now in that circle
of s%uia softness and broken columns
he looked at her and suddenly asked
himself:
“Just what does she mean to you?”
If he had never asked himself <hat
question before he knew now that it
must some day be answered. Friend
ship had been a good and seemingly
a sufficie'nt definition. Now he was not;
so sure that it could remain so.
Then his thoughts went back to a
cabin in the hills and a girl in calico.
He heard a voice like the voice of a
song bird saying through tears:
“1 couldn't live without ye, Sanisoa.
. . . 1 jest couldn’t <lo hit!”
For a moment he was sick of his life
It seemed that there stood before him,
in that place of historic wraiths and
memories, a girl, her eyes sad, but,
loyal, and without reproof.
“You look,” said Adrienne, studying!
his countenance Tn IBe pallor of the
moonlight, "as though you were se»
ing ghosts.”
“I am," sa!d Samson. "Let's go.”
Adrienne had not yet seen her pop
trait Samson had needed a few hour*
of finishing when he left New York,
though it was work which could be
done away from the model So It was
natural that when the party reached
Paris Adrienne should soon insist on
crossing the Pont d'Alexandre III to
his studio near the "Roule Mich'' for an
inspection of her commissioned canvas.
For a while she wandered about the
businesslike place, littered with the
gear of the painter’s craft. It was, in
a way, a form of mind-reading, for
Samson’s brush was the tongue of his
soul.
The girl’s eyes grew thoughtful as
she saw that he still drew the leering,
saturnine face of Jim Asberry. He
had not outgrown hate, then? Put
she said nothing until he brought out
and set on an easel her own portrait.
For a moment she gasped with sheer
delight for the colorful mastery of the
technique, and she would have been
hard to please had she not been de
lighted with the conception of her
self mirrored in the canvas. It was a
face through which the soul showed,
and the soul was strong and flawless.
The girl’s personality radiated from
the canvas—and yet— A disappointed
little look crossed and clouded her
eyes. She was conscious of an in
definable catch of pain at her heart.
Samson stepped forward, and his
waiting eyes, too, were disappointed.
“You don’t like it, Drennie?” he
anxiously questioned. But she smiled
in answer, and declared:
“I love it.”
He went out a^ew minutes later to
telephone for her to Mrs. I^escott, and
gave Adrienne carte blanche to browse
among his portfolios and stacked can
vases until his return. In a few min
utes she discovered one of those ef
forts which she called his “rebellious
pictures.” >
These wSe such things as he paint
ed. using no model except memory
perhaps, not for the making of finished
pictures, but merely to give outlet to
his feelings; an outlet which some
men might have found in talk.
This particular canvas was roughly
blocked in, and it was elementally
simple, but each brush stroke bad
been thrown against the surface with
the concentrated fire and energy of a
blow, except the strokes that had
painted the face, and there the brush
had seemed to kiss the canvas The
picture show.d a barefooted girl,
standing, in barbaric simplicity of
dress, in the glare of the arena, while
a gaunt linn crouched eyeing her. Her
head was lifted as though she were
listening to faraway music In the
eves was Indomitable courage That
canvas was at once a declaration of
love, and a miserere. Adrienne se.t
i it up beside her own portrait, and, as
| she studied the two with her chin rest
I ing on her gloved band, her eyes
[ cleared of questioning. Now* she knew
what she missed in her own more
beautiful likeness. It had been paint
ed with all the admiration of the mind.
The other had been dashed off straight
from the heart—and this other was
Bally! She replaced the sketch where
she had found it. and Samson return
ing found her busy with little sketches
of the Seine.
**•**••
“Drennie," pleaded Wilfred Horton,
as the two leaned on the rail of the
Mauretania, returning from Europe,
"are you going to hold me off in
definitely? I’ve served my seven
years for Rachel, and thrown in some
extra time. Am I no nearer the goal?”
The girl looked at the oily heave of
the leaden and cheerless Atlantic, and
its somber tones found reflection in
her eyes. She shook her head.
“I wish I knew,” she said, wearily.
Then she added vehemently: “I'm not
worth it. Wilfred. Let. me go. Chuck
ne out of your life as a little pig who
< an’t read her ovn heart; who is too
utterly selfish to decide upon her own
life.”
•■Is it”—he put the question with
foreboding—“that, after all, I was a
prophet? Have you — and South —
wiped your feet on the doormat
marked 'Platonic friendship?’ Have
you done that, Drennie?”
She looked up into his eyes. Her
awu were wide and honest and very
full of pair
“No,” she said, “we haven't done
hat, yet. I * tess we won't. . . •
I think he’d rather stay outside. Wll
nd. If I w«»3 sure I loved him, and
that he loved me, I'd feel like a cheat
—there is the other girl to think of.
. And, besides, I'm not sure what
1 want myself. . . . But I'm horribly
afraid I’m going to end by losing you
both.”
Horton stood silent. It was tea
time, and from below came the strains
of the ship’s orchestra. A few ulster
muffled passengers gloomily paced
the deck.
"You won’t lose us both, Drennie,”
he said, steadily. "You may lose your
choice—but. if you find yourself able
to fall back on substitutes, I’ll be
there, waiting.”
For once he did not meet her scru
tiny, or know of it. His own eyes were
fixed on the slow swing of heavy,
gray-green waters. He was smiling,
but it is as a man smiles when he con
fronts despair and pretends that every
thing is quite all right. The girl
looked at him with a choke in her
threat.
“Wilfred,” she said, laying her hand
n his arm, “I’m not worth worrying
ver. Really, I’m not. If Samson
South proposed to me today, I know
hat I should refuse him. 1 am not
t all surt that I am the least little
bit in love with him. Only, dou’t you
•«e I can’t be quite sure I'm not? It
would be horrlbie If we all made a
mistake. May I have till Christmas
to make up my mind for all time? I’ll
tell you then, dear, if you care to
1 wait."
CHAPTER XIII.
Tamarack Spicer sat on the top of
a box car, swinging his legs over the
side. He was clad in overalls, and In
the pockets of his breeches reposed
a bulging flask of red liquor, and an
unbulging pay envelope. Tamarack
had been “railroading” for several
months this time. He had made a
new record for sustained effort and
industry, but now June was beckon
j ing him to the mountains with vaga
bond yearnings for freedom and lei
sure. Many things had invited his soul.
Almoet four years had passed since
Samson had left the mountains, and
In four years a woman can change her
mind. Sally might, when they met on
the road, greet him once more as kins
man and agree to forget his faulty
method of courtship. This time he
would be more diplomatic. Yesterday
he had gone to the boss and “called
for his time.” Today he was paid off,
and a free lance.
As he reflected on these matters a
fellow-trainman came along the top
of the car and sat down at Tamarack’s
side. This brakeman had also been
recruited from the mountains, though
from another section—over toward the
Virginia line.
“So yer qulttin’?" observed the new
comer.
Spicer nodded.
“Goin’ back thar on Misery?”
Again Tamarack answered with a
jerk of his head.
“I’ve been layin’ off ter tell ye some
thin', Tam'rack.”
"Cut her loose.”
“I laid over in Hixon last week, an’
some fellers that used ter know my
mother’s folks took me down in the
cellar of Hollman’s store, an’ give me
some licker.”
“What of hit?”
"They was talkin’ ’bout you.”
“What did they eay?”
“I seen that they was enemies of
yours, an' they wasn’t in no good hu
mor, so, when they axed me ef I
knowed ye, I ‘lowed I didn’t know
nothin’ good about ye. I had ter cuss
ye out, or git In trouble myself.”
Tamarack cursed the whole Hollman
tribe, and his companion went on:
“Jim Asberry was thar. He ’lowed
they’d found out thet you’d done shot
Curvy thet time, an he said”—the
hrak.-inan paused to add emphasis to
his conclusion—"thet the next time ye
come home, he ’lowed ter git ye plum'o
shore.”
I dUIUliU K eUTlJWUfU
"Much obleeged,” he replied.
A* Hixon Tamarack Spicer strolled
5.1ong the street toward the court
house. He wished to be seen. So long
;s it was broad daylight and he dis
played no hostility, be knew he was
safe—and he had plans.
Standing before the Hollman store
were Jim Asberry and several com
panions. They greeted Tamarack af
fably and he paused to talk.
“Ridin’ over ter Misery?” inquired
Asberry.
" 'Lowed I mout as well.”
‘‘Mind ef I rides with ye es fur es
Jesse's place?”
"Plumb glad ter have company,”
drawled Tamarack.
They chatted of many things, and!
traveled slowly, but, when they came,
lo those narrows where they could not
ride stirrup to stirrup each jockeyed
for the rear position, and the man who
found himself forced into the lead
turned in his saddle and talked back
over his shoulder, with wary, though
seemingly careless, eyes. Each knew
the other was bent on his murder.
At Purvy’s gate Asberry waved fare
well and turned in. Tamarack rod%?
on, but shortly he hitched his horset
in the concealment of a hollow, walled;
with huge rocks, and disappeared Into
the laurel.
He began climbing. In a crouched
position, bringing each foot down
noiselessly and pausing often to listen.
Jim Asberry had not been outwardly
armed when he left Spicer. But, soon,
the brakeman’s delicately attuned eara
caught a eound that made him lie flat
In the lee of a great log, where he was
masked In clumps of flowering rho
dodendron. Presently Asberry passed-,
him, also walking cautiously, but hur
riedly, and cradling a Winchester rifle
in the hollow of his arm. Then Tama
rack knew that Asberry was taking
this cut to head him off and waylay
him in the gorge a mile away by road
but a short distance only over fhe hill.
Spicer held his heavy revolver cocked
in his hand, but it was too near the
Purvy house to risk a shot. He waited
a moment, and then, rising, went on
noiselessly with a snarling grin, stalk
ing the man who was stalking him.
Asberry found a place at. the foot1,
of a huge pine where the undergrowth
would cloak him. Twenty yards below
ran the creek-bed road, returning from
Its long horseshoe deviation. When
he had taken his position his faded
butternut, clothing matched the earth
as inconspicuously ae a quail matches
dead leaves, and he settled himself to
wait. Slowly and with infinite cau
tion his intended victim stole down,,
guarding each step, until he was in
short and certajn range, but, instead!
of being at the front, he came from
the back. He, also, lay flat on his
stomach and raised the already cocked
pistol. He steadied it in a two-handed
grip against a tree trunk and trained
It with deliberate care on a point to
the left of the other man's spine just
below the shoulder blades.
i
CONTINUED IN NEXT ISSUE.