ShaDCD M5T
A TALE Or CIVIL STRIFE t*
rRANDALL PARP15H ’l
tUSTPATIONS S-C DPHODES
COfi>y/?/crtr 1_(J
* .C.S1?CU/#G UCO. -■ ■ I
SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER I—Confederate Sergeant
Wyatt of the Staunton artillery is sent
as a spy to his native county on the Grten
Briar by General Jackson.
^ HARTER II—Wyatt meets a moun
taineer named Jem Taylor, with whom he
rides to a house beyond Hot Springs. j
CHAPTER III—In the house Wyatt and
Taylor meet Major Harwood, father of 1
isoreen and an old neighbor of Wyatt,
hvlio Is sent to bed while the two other i
men talk. Wyatt becomes suspicious and '
finds that Taylor has murdered Hat wood
and escaped.
. CHAPTER IV—Wyatt changes to the
U. S, cavalrf uniform he has with him,
and rides away in the night, running into
a detachment of Federal cavalry, to
whom he identifies himself as Lieutenant
Raymond, Third U. H. cavalry, by means
of papers with which he lias been pro
vided. Captain Fox finds Harwood's body
and follows Taylor's trail.
CHAPTER V—Fox and Wyatt believe
Taylor to be old Ned Cowan. The de
tachment Is ambushed. Wyatt escapes to
the Green Briar country and goes to Har
wood's apparently deserted home.
CHAPTER VI—Wyatt finds Noreen
Harwood alone in her home. She does
n°f recognise him, and he introduces him
self as Lieutenant Raymond.
CHAPTER VII—Parson Nichols comes
to the house and tells Noreen of her fa
ther's death.
CHAPTER VIII—Wyatt forces Parson
Nichols to confess that he has been sent
In advance of Anse Cowan, who proposes
to marry Noreen at once, and bo quiet :
title to the land In dispute between the
Cowans and Noreen’s dead father.
CHAPTER IX—Anse Cowan and his
gang arrive and find the preacher bound
In a closet. Wyatt and Noreen have con
cealed themselves in the attic.
CHAPTER X—The Cowan gang ran
sacks the house but fails to find the hid
den couple. Wyatt tells Noreen who he Is.
CHAPTER XI—Wyatt and Noreen re
turn to the second floor and await the
next move of the gang, forcing the
preacher to silence.
CHAPTER XII—Enable to escape while
the gang Ls on the first floor and around
the house. Wyatt proposes to marry
Nor°en to protect her from Cowan. She
accepts and Wyatt forces the preacher to
marry them.
CHAPTER XIH—Cowan’s gang la driv
en off by Federal troops, one of whose
officers Is the real Lieutenant Raymond.
Wyatt Is trapped, though Noreen attempts
to defend him.
CHAPTER XIV—Wyatt Is taken to
Lewisburg for trial as a spy.
CHAPTER XV—The camp commandant
and Captain Fox visit Wyatt In his cell
In the courthouse basement. He refuses
clemency in return for Information, and I
uses his boyhood's knowledge of the build
ing to prepare a way of escape.
CHAPTER XVI—Captain Fox again
visits Wyatt, and tells him that Noreen ,
has Interceded for him unsuccessfully, and i
that Raymond jealous, ls pushing the !
case against him.
CHAPTER XVII—Wyatt escapes to the
attic and thence to the sheriff’s office by
means of a disused, old-fashioned chlm- I
ney, washes off the soot and changes
clothes in the deserted washroom, and re
connolters.
CHAPTER XVIII—Wyatt surprises •
Raymond and Ids camp commandant. ;
holds them up, and with the aid of Nor
een, gets out of headquarters room in
the courthouse.
“Are there any new orders?" I asked
!n tone of authority. “You remember
passing us in. do you not?”
“We passed the lady, sir,” the
older man answered respectfully, “but
no officer.”
“Ah, yes, I see; you are not the
same men who were on guard when I
arrived. 1 am Lieutenant Mann, of
General Ramsay’s staff, and have been
■.with Colonel Plckney. The lady will
i vouch for me.”
“Yes, sir,” yet with lingering doubt
In his voice. “No doubt It Is all right,
sir; but the orders are very strict
tonight. If you have not the word I
shall have to call the sergeant.”
“Quite right, my man; but that is
not necessary,” and I took a step
nearer and bent my head. “Kana
wha.”
The two men shouldered their mus
kets, and the older one brought his
hand up in salute.
“Pass, sir,” he said soberly, and
stood aside. We went down the broad
steps, dimly lighted by a distant fire,
my hand touching her arm. The in
fantry camp lay between us and the
road. The campfire In front yielded
just enough light to enable me to
study out our surroundings. The band
still played noisily in the courtroom
above. The camp was quiet, the sol
diers apparently sleeping on the
ground. I could perceive only a few
tents, showing white in the firelight,
but the figures of sentries appeared
here and there, slowly pacing their
beats. Had 1 been alone I should have
crept forward and endeavored to slip
by unseen, but I was conscious of the
hand which grasped my sleeve, and
my eyes fell to her face.
“You are my guide tonight,” I whis
pered softly. “Have you some plan
already devised? There must be in
stant action.”
"Hardly that; this has all occurred
so quickly, so unexpectedly. I have
had no time in which to think. Isn t
it best to go straight ahead, and run
the chance?”
“Past the guard yonder?"
"Yes; I am not greatly afraid of
him! We have the word, and Captain
Fox and I were together when I
passed here before. He wdll remem
ber me, and have no suspicion. Only
there may be officers sitting on the
veranda of the hotel.”
"It looks dark and deserted from
here* and the hour is late.”
“True; I suppose all who are not j
on duty are at the dance. Besides, I
there Is no other way In which you j
can attain the stables. I—I am ready
to try it—are you?”
I answered with the pressure of my
hand on the fingers clasping my
sleeve. There was no response; nei
ther were they withdrawn. She drew
a long hreath, and stepped bravelv
forward. The way was clear, easily
followed even in the darkness, and 1
walked close beside her. Within a
few jards of the fellow she gave vent
to a little ripple of laughter, barely
enough to attract attention, and again
slipped her hand into the support of
my arm. The soldier stood at atten
tion, but made no effort whatever to
bar our progress.
We strolled on slowly, passing di
rectly beneath the glare of the lamp.
We attempted to talk, but I retain no
memory of a single word that was
uttered. My heart was beating like
an engine, and my threat was dry, the j
lingers of one hand gripping the butt
of a revolver in my bolt. I was dimly
aware of the tremor in her voice, the
pressing closer to me of her slender
figure. We passed out beyond the
glow of the revealing light, to where
our eyes were able to sweep the dark
ened porch. There W'ere a dozen chairs
standing back of the rail, but mm.'; 1
were occupied. She gave a little sob
of relief, both hands nervously grasp
ing my sleeve.
“Thank God!” she said fervently,
"now if we only have five minutes
morel”
CHAPTER XX.
IT" _
A Step Nearer.
“The stables?” I asked. “What
horses are there?”
"Officers' mounts; but there were !
several others tied at the hitch rail
an hour ago. They appeared to be
good stock; better even than the gov- !
ernment horses.”
I could perceive them dimly, from
where we skulked In the shadow of ;
the building. 1 took a step or two
forward, circling the house, so as to
better approach the animals along the
shadow of an orchard fence. 1 knew
she followed close at my heels and,
turning, got a glimpse of her fright
ened face.
"There is no reason why you should
worry,” 1 said softly, taking her hands
in mine. Now listen to me; your
nerves are all unstrung; this night's
work has been too much for you—
too much for any girl. And God
knows y*>u have done enough f- r me
already. Where are you stopping?
Hera at the hotel?”
“Y—yes.”
"Then slip inside while there is no
one hanging around; and get safely to
your own room. There is nothing
mare you can do. I will take one of
those h rses yonder and be off, and I
know the country well enough to find
my way. Once in the mountains I
shall be safe. You will do as I say?”
To my surprise, she looked straight
Into my face, standing motionless. Sh<*
seemed to catch her breath, as though
it was difficult to speak.
“You mean that—that I am to go
to my reem?” she asked slowly.
“Certainly; that will be the safest
and brst thing for you to du. I can
n.t tell you how grateful I am to
you; nothing 1 can evor do will repay
the servico you have rendered me.
You are a wonderfully brave girl."
"Do you think so? Oh, but 1 am
neither bravo nor wonderful. I have
scarcely known what 1 was dMng; it
didn't seem as if there was anything
elRe T could do. Dot I know now; I
have no doubt any more—unless—
unless you refuse to let me.”
“I refuse! I do not understand what
I could refuse. All that remains is for
you to go to yohr room. You will be
perfectly safe here.”
“Howr will I be safe here?” she
asked Indignantly. "Do you suppose
they will spare me, merely because I
am a woman? This has not been done
In secret; there are too many who
know my part in your escape to ever
keep the truth hidden. Colonel Pick
ney will have to make his report and
shield himself from blame. There is j
not an officer here who will stand
openly In my defense, unless it be
Captain Fox, and he could not help
me. Is it under such conditions you
desire 1 remain here?”
“But do you realize what going with
me will inevitably mean?”
"Yes, I realize—not only the peril
and hardship, but every Issue involved.
I made my choice back in the court
house. It is too late to withdraw.”
She paused as though unable to find
expression, breathing heavily, and her
face sank until I could no longer see
hfer eyes.
“When—when I told Colonel Pick
ney that—that you were my husband,”
she faltered, driven to It by my con
tinued silence, "I spoke hastily, it is
true; for my only thought just then
w’as the necessity for saving your life.
I felt that—that I could do no less,
and—and I desired to justify my ac
tion. They—they had to know why I
did it; do you not understand? I—I,
am a 'Union woman; they have trust
ed me always, these men; even to
night they told me the countersign be
cause of confidence in my loyalty. I—
I was the daughter of an officer on
General Ramsay’s staff. I could not
let those men think me a traitor. 1—1
had to tel) them why it had become
my duty to aid you. There was no
other possible way; no other reason
which would justify me in such an
act; but—but that confession left me
utterly in your power.”
“in my power, Noreen! Surely you
do not think that I will ever take
advantage; that I will ever miscon
strue your real purpose?”
“No! but will you live up to the ob
ligation? Oh, you do not see the situ
ation at all! When I said you were
my husband 1 threw myself on your
protection. I—I burned the boats. I
am all alone now, unless—unless you
stand by me. My father is dead;
there is not one person anywhere to
whom I can go. If I remain here I
shall be placed under arrest before
daylight—charged with aiding your
escape; perhaps charged with aiding
you in your work—and I have no
friends, no defense. Tom, I must go
on with you!”
I could not ignore her plea, nor
would I misconstrue it. It was fear
which thus drove her to me; she had
more confidence in my kindness than
in their justice—that was the whole
story. The poor girl was so fright
ened she had chosen blindly—she
could perceive nothing, realize noth
ing, except the necessity for immedi
ate escape. My own resolve was in
stant.
"Do not say any more, Noreen,” I
said soberly, but making no attempt
to touch her. “I understand now. You
mean you wish to ride with me? You
trust me fully?”
“I trust you; is not that enough?
All I ask now is, do not leave me here
alone."
Her fingers clasped my coat, her
eyes suddenly lifted to my faco.
“Promise me that, Tom,” she begged
brokenly. “It will be all I ask.”
"Surely; we will go together,” and
I gripped her hands tightly in mine.
"Whatever happens I will do my best.
Hut we must go at once."
"Yes, and—and thank you.”
We crept forward along the shadow
of the orchard fence, until we mingled
with the horses fastened at the hitch
“I Trust You; Is Not That Enough?” ]
ing rail. I selected among them, as 1
best I could in the darkness, two that
seemed well adapted to our purpose.
I helped her silently into the saddle,
thrusting one of my revolvers into the
empty holster, and then mounted my
self.
"Which way had we better go?’’ I
asked, my face close, our horses
touching.
"Along the south road at first;
there is a cut-off just back cf the old
school.”
"And the pickets—do you know
where they are posted?”
“At the ford cf the Green Briar—
the main ford.”
“There are none at Benton?"
“No; I do not think they even know
the river is fordable there; it is not
on the maps.”
We rode forward slowly, my hand
on her bridle rein, keeping in the
deeper shadows along the side of the
road, until we passed beyond the last
house of the village. If the camp
was not alarmed for another half hour,
our pursuers would be given a hard
task. Strange that the Federal
scouts had never located the Benton
ford. To be sure it w-as narrow, and
of no value in high water, yet an Ideal
place for raiding parties to cross, and
all those hills beyond were full of
guerrilla bands eager to strike quick
and get safely away. That they dared
to attack small bodies of troops, and
especially poorly guarded wagon
trains, had been demonstrated more
than once, and this secret ford gave
them easy opi>ortunity. The Cowans
certainly knew of its feasibility, and
the wonder was they had never uti
lized it before.
The longer I thought the more I
began to dread the unknown dangers
ahead—the gauntlet we must run be
fore attaining the Confederate lines.
We could baffle pursuit, but if once we
came into contact w ith those irregu
lars of the mountains—merciless, irre
sponsible—no one could predict the
result. I could skulk along through
the night, discard my horse, travel
afoot, and thus avoid encountering
any ef those villains. 1 was myself a
mountaineer, alid knew the secret
trails. But with her beside mu, the
I
two of us mounted, such a feat wai
almost impossible. I must find hei
food and shelter, and we could no
travel on horseback without lea v in;
a trail unconcealed. To be sure,
knew her of old; that she was strong
resourceful, fearless—yet she was s
woman to be protected from insult. t<
be guarded against exposure; more
she was the woman 1 loved.
But would she be in any less dangei
if I compelled her to return to Lewis
burg? She would be exposed to in
dignities, to almost certain persecu
ticn from Raymond.
“Norton,’’ 1 said, turning my fac<
toward her. "Do y.-u really think ii
best to try this ride witli mo?”
“You do not wish me to go?” sh«
asked, as instantly reining up. “Yoi
want me to return?”
"No, not that. I have no thoughl
but for your own good. Only do yoi
unaft'stand the perils through which
we must pass in those mountains?”
“Yes, I do understand,” she an
swered soberly, “and 1 comprehend, at
you cannot, the danger of my return
ing to Lewisburg. 1 will never gc
back there; but, if you think it best
for us to part, I will endeavor to react
Charleston alone.”
“You would rather go on with me?’
“I made that choice, but if you con
sTder me a burden—”
‘‘No, it is not that, Noreen,” 1 in
terrupted, touched by the regretful
tone of her voice. "It was of you 1
was thinking, not myself. Then we
go on together?”
She was silent, her eyes on the
darkness ahead.
“It must be your decision,” I in
sisted.
"I made my choice an hour ago," she
answered frankly.
1 waited an instant, thinking she
might say more, but she sat motion
less in the saddle. Just what her de
cision signified I could not judge. II
seemed to me that between two dan
gers she had simply chosen the one
she deemed to be the lesser. It wae
not affection for me, but fear of otti
ers, which urged her forward. Grasp
ing her bridle rein, I rode on through
the dark without another word. The
decision had been made; now we must
both of us abide the consequences.
CHAPTER XXI.
The Fight in the Cabin.
Benton's cabin had been burned six
months ago, N’oreen told me, and the
old man was believed to be dead. Few
others ever used this cut-off, or had
occasion to pass this way. and the
weeds had quickly taken possession I
was obliged to feel for the worn trail
as it wound here and there along the
slope of the hill, and then finally dowr
a shallow depression toward the rivei
hank. The horses stepped cautiously
pressed closely together in the narrov
rut, and the only noise was the occs
sional stumble of a hoof. Thus w
came down to the shore. My memor;
of the spot was hazy and uncertain.
"Have you ever crossed here?”
asked doubtfully. "I scarcely remem
ber where the ford lies.”
"Yes,” she replied, leaning forward
“with my father a year ago.”
“We'll ride together, but keep youi
feet free in the stirrups."
‘‘I am not in the least frightened
Don’t worry about me,” and she held
out her hand. “Y'ou’ll not find me a
bad soldier.”
“1 am certain of that—not if you
are still the same girl I played with.”
Her hand was in mine, and was not
withdrawn.
“I—hardly think I am,” she an
swered soberly, a little catch in her
voice. “I am not a girl at all any
more, but I keep something of the
same spirit, 1 hope.”
I have never understood what spell
there was about her to keep me silent.
I had never before lacked audacity,
yet I dare not speak the words that
were on my lips. The thought had
taken firm possession of my mind that
she was the victim of circumstances;
that she accompanied me merely to
escape from threatened danger. 1
knew I loved her; the touch of her
hand sent a wild thrill through me.
and my heart throbbed to the memory
that she was actually my wife. But 1
dare not permit, her to even guess the
truth, for I felt that she regretted the
weakness of that moment and woulc
resent the slightest reference to it
I released her hand, venturing upor
no reply, and we rode down the steep
bank. The sullen sweep of the water
out of the darkness above, into the
darkness below, and the brooding
silence, lay hold on my nerves. We
drew in under the shadows of the
wooded bank, pushed our way through
to the top of the rise, came suddenly
to an open space, where a dozen acres
had been cleared, and rode out boldly
across the open field to the Hot
Springs pike, clearly visible beneath
the soft gleam of the stars.
1 know- not how long we rode, or
how far for my mind had drifted intc
a review of the night's adventures
arid a plan for the morrow. We met
w ith no one. heard no noise except the
steady pounding of our horse's hoofs
A little later the sky to the east, be
gan to lighten in the promise of dawn
We climbed a long hill, our horses
slowing to the ascent, and by the time
we attained the summit the gray light
revealed our faces. I looked across
at her, and her eyes, uplifted sud
denly to mine, smiled.
“You are worn out,” 1 said.
“1—I am tired," she confessed. “I—
I have been two days and nights with
out sleep. If I could cnly rest for an
hour—"
“You shall—all day long. We will
find a place in which to hide down
there in the valley."
The road^ led winding down ybetween
rocky Thanks into a narrow valley,
i hemmed in by great hills, and watered
■ by a small stream. As we paused to
; let the thirsty animals drink, the in
A Big Fellow With Ragged, Un
trimmed Hair and Scraggly Beard.
creasing daylight gave me glimpse of
a bridle path skirting the edge of the
stream along the west bank. The
path turned sharply to the right, and
as we mounted to the slightly higher
ground we could see the cabin perched
on a little knoll, against the black hill
behind.
Surely nothing about the shanty, or
its immediate surroundings, indicated
present occupancy. Yet when I finally
advanced it was with caution, and a
strange sense of expectation. Moreen
followed closely behind, treading al
most in my footsteps, as noiseless as
a fawn, her skirts held close about her
limbs. At the edge of the woods she
stood motionless as I went crouching
forward. The cabin was not deserted,
in spiTe of its desolate outward ap
pearance. Opposite me was an open
lirepiace, an iron kettle sitting in the
ashes, while a short-barreled rifle
stood upright in a corner. On one of
the stools lay a broad-brimmed hat,
and a pair of ragged cordutoy trousers
hung on a wooden peg beside the un
barred door. I motioned to her to
join me. In spite of the llpes of weari
ness in her face the light of the dawn
revealed a beauty that caused my
heart to throb. Her eyes silently ques
tioned me, and I explained quickly
what discovery I had made.
"But the man may return," she said
doubtfully.
| “Ol course, although I Imagine he
_ ; has disappeared for the day. It h«
, | is hiding out he may not dare to re
! main here in daylight. Anyway you
j can rest safely, for I am not in need
I ' of any sleep. I napped in my cell
! yesterday, and just a short doze will
serve me. But you are terribly tired—
It is in your eyes.”
j “Yes,” she confessed, “I must sleep
j somewhere.”
"Then come; we’ll find a bite to eat
! and a place for you to lie down.”
I opened the door noiselessly, al
■ though 1 took no special precaution,
und held it wide, while she stepped
across the threshold, and stood look
ing curiously about. Then I closed It
behind us, and we were in a sort of
twilight, amid which objects appeared
rather indistinct.
“Ah,” I said, “the fellow’s cupboard
m ist be over yonder. I hope he keeps
it well stocked.”
I stepped across in front of her, with
no other thought than that of explor
ing the larder, when she gave vent to
a startled cry, and I stopped suddenly,
sweeping my eyes about to learn the
cause of alarm. The ragged quilt was
on the floor, and a man leaped across
i ho room and grasped the rifle in the
corner. I saw the swift movement,
realized the purpose, yet had scarcely
time to draw a revolver from the belt,
before he had hand on the weapon,
and whirled savagely about, facing us.
For the instant the gloom disfigured
his face—all I knew was that he was
a big fellow, with ragged, untrimmed
hair and a scraggly beard. I stepped
j forward and flung up my arm.
I "Drop it!” I said shortly. "Lift that
gun and you're dead!”
At first 1 thought him crazy enough
to take the chance of my fire; then
the big fingers relaxed, and the rifle
fell clattering to the floor. To my Bur
prise the fellow laughed.
“Well. I’ll be damned!” he chortled,
“you here?”
He threw back his head, and 1 rec
ognized him—-Jem Taylor, old Ned
Cowan. I drew a quick breath, my
teeth clenched, my arm steady. Tills
encounter was going to prove no boy's
play.
"Put down yer popgun, boy, an’ take
it easy—the blame thing mout go off.
1 reckon as how we all hav’n't got
nothin' fer fight fer, hav' we? How
tin r Sam Hill did yer ever git yere?”
“Now wait,” I broke in coldly. “You
stand just where you are. I am not
sure whether you know me or net;
but I know you, Ned Cowan—l know
what you did at Hot Springs, and how
you took me along so as to make oth
ers believe I was guilty—”
“Shucks, lad; 'twas no more than
a fair fight.”
“It was cold-blooded murder, Cow
an!” I txclaimed indignantly, “the cul
mination of a feud.”
“Huh who told yer that?"
I stepped aside, but still held him
under the muzzle of my revolver. The
change in posture brought the man
| lace to face with Norecji; I saw him
j lean forward aud gaze at her; then
recoil, as though he viewed a ghost.
She never moved, never spoke.
‘‘Good Lord!” he muttered. “Is that
Harwood’s girl? Why, Anse’s out
huntin' after her now—’
He stopped, cursing fiercely to him
self. His eyes shifted their gaze from
the tace of the girl to mine. They
were narrow cat eyes, cruel and cun
ning.
“I reckon I ain't seen ol’ Harwood's
gal afore in maybe five year,” he said
slowly, “but she has sure growed up
fine. Anse took after marrying’ her
furst Jist ter spite Harwood, but since
he seed her a while back he's sorter
took a notion he wants her hisself.
I reckon I don’t blame him. Thet’s
why he wouldn’t wait, but set out ter
night. No, I don't reckon, young fel
ler, it’s no particular risk. Yer a sojer
an' don't Jest understand how we fight
out yere in the mountings. We Jest
strike quick, an’ then git away. ’Tain t
so much of a trick Anse is a-playlng
at over at Lewisburg. Sure thar's five
hundred Yanks thar; an’ if thar wud
five thousand it wouldn't make no
great difference the way the guard is
sot. The wbol’ blame caboodle is
camped in the courthouse yard, an’
the only picket is at the main ford o’
the Green Briar. Yer never saw no
body, did yer, gittin’ out yere?”
“No,” I admitted, realizing his Inti
mate knowledge. “The camp is poorly
protected."
“I reckon it 1e. and Anse knows
that just as well as you do. An’ he
knows the gal yere had a room at ther
hotel. Thar is where he went, aimin’
fer ter raid the shebang just before
daylight." He lauRhed again mirth
lessly. “By God, but Anse will be
some mad when he finds cut. whut has
happened. I reckon he’ll bout cut yer
heart out."
“He will have to get me first."
“Oh, don’t yer ever worry none
'bout thet, young fellar. Anse will
sure git yer; he knows every bridle
path 'cross these mountings, an’ I
wouldn’t give a continental damn
fer no chance you’ve got fer ter git
away. He's a tiger cat on & trail,
Anse is—an' besides the blame fool
wants the gal. He ain't no Cowan if
be lets you beat him outer her.”
He glanced quickly across my shoul
der toward the door. Perhaps she
moved; perhaps it was all imagina
tion, but I thought 1 heard a noise, and
wheeled partly around, my eyes for
an instant deserting old Cowan’s face.
It was his one chance, and he took tt.
I sensed the spring, even as Noreen's
cry of warning broke the silence, but
not in time to escape the grip of the
old man's iron fingers. His body
crashed against me with such force
that 1 staggered and fell; onp hand
closed like a vise on my throat, the
other gripped the stock of my re
volver, crushing my flngera lifeless. I
struck the edge of the table, strug
gling vainly to beep my teet. It went
oyer with a crash, hearing us both
along, old Ned atop, clutching fiercely
to keep his hold, his eyes blazing
madly down into mine. As we struck
I wrenched my hand free and pulled
the trigger. The shot seemed to blaze
across my own breast, burning like
fire, and, the next instant, the man’s
knee crushed my wrist to the floor,
and the revolver fell from my be
j benumbed fingers.
I seem to recall little of what fol
lowed; only a confused recollection of
desperate struggling amid the legs of
the overturned table; of oaths, blows,
of eyes glaring revengefully into mine.
I seemed to lose all knowledge, ail
consciousness, under the merciless
throttling of those hard fingers. Then
suddenly they relaxed—I caught a
quick, reviving breath, another. Every
nerve in me throbbed; I could see
again, hear, feel. That was Noreen's
face I looked into—ay. and the girl
was actually dragging the fellow off
me! I took another breath, a long
one, moving so that the inert body
rolled over on its side; then I rose up,
supporting myself on one arm, and
stared about, sobbing in the first ef
fort to gain control.
“Noreen!” the name choked in my
throat.
Yea; It s all right now—Cowan la
dead.”
"Dpad! You—you killed him?"
"No; it muat have been your shot.
1 had no chance; you—you two fought
like madmen—then—then he just ict
go of you, and fr'l back. I was afraid
to come—I thought at first he had
killed you.”
"My shot! why the resolver just
went off.” I muttered, scarcely com
prehending. "See! the bullet burned
me across the chest, and there Is
blood there. And you say it struck
him? Lord! I never knew. Help me
to sit up. Noreen.”
With the aid of her arms I found
support against the table. The blue
coat I wore showed clearly the mark
of the bullet, and blood discolored the
burned cloth. I ran my hand within,
touching the flesh.
“A mere scratch.” T said lightly, "re
quiring a little water. Iion't cry, No
reen; there is no harm done; I'll be
all right in a minute. Are you sura
Co« an is dead?"
"Yes; he—he hasn't moved since;
but—but I didn’t kill him."
"Of course no, and I'm glad I did.
This is part of my trade, and I'll not
lose any sleep over it. Ah! 1 can get
lip alone, and the first thing I am
going to do la to bar that door.”
CONTINUED IN NEXT ISSUE.
No Bacteria on Gold.
Microbes are never found on gold
coins, while paper money is an ideal
home for them, and every old bank
note Is a menace of disease. One
authority has stated his belief that
gold acts as a bactericide.
*