Chapter VI: Part 6

At first Henry shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and made a movement as though he would jerk away from his detaining hand; but as James continued speaking he seemed to change his mind, and said slowly: “Very well! I do not often smoke, but perhaps it would quiet my nerves.” Aunt Hattie bade him a very crusty good-night; she had been very sarcastic, and ill-natured all the evening; it seemed to make her angry if either Marjy or Henry showed any enjoyment; she seemed equally angry if they sat silent and unhappy.

“Oh, auntie, you ought not to be so ill-natured!” said Marjy after they had gone.

“Oh, of course, I am the one to blame! If I lost everything I possess on earth, I ought to keep right on smiling—I should like to know what James went home with Henry for? some scheming, I suppose!” she harped upon these two strings until it was very trying.

James locked his arm in Henry’s, talking pleasantly, Henry replying absently as though he but half-comprehended.

As I have said his rooms were in the front part of the house; he pulled down the blinds, and lighted a lamp with a soft, rose-colored shade, and threw himself into an easy-chair with an air of great weariness. James seated himself at his right side, but with his chair so turned that he could watch Henry’s face. He led him gently on, until, before he realized what he was doing, he was pouring all his distress and grief into his companion’s ear, in a low, dreamy tone, an aggrieved quiver running through his voice.

“Can you explain what it is that haunts your mind—you remember that you spoke of it this evening?” questioned James.

The trouble deepened in his eyes, and his voice took on a more fretful tone: “I do not know, I tell you the truth, I do not know—but it is something about that combination, and—Aunt Hattie; sometimes I can almost see it; but before I can quite grasp it, it is gone. I believe that I shall go insane, if I cannot get the thing off my mind.”

James reached over and laid his hand on the other’s shoulder affectionately: “Don’t worry, old fellow! It will all come out right! Did you ever try to bring the vision before you by concentrating your mind upon the fragment which you seem to catch—not at first trying to get any further—and thus ascertain how much of the shadow you can make real? When you have proved that the haunting remembrance is not wholly illusory, you can then step by step trace back to that which evades you. Henry obediently rested his head on the cushion, and drew a long breath or two like a tired sigh.

“Well, what do you see?” asked James eagerly.

He answered in the tone of a child repeating its lesson: “I see a bright light—” he started up excitedly: “I cannot see anything beyond except a moving shadow—Oh! It is myself that I see!” his voice expressive of intense surprise.

“Yes? What are you doing?” James asked, trembling with excitement.

“Standing in the middle of the room, repeating the combination aloud—over and over again, making Aunt Hattie repeat it after me.”

“Where is Aunt Hattie?”

“In her sitting room.”

“How do you see this?”

“It is like a picture! This is that which has eluded me for days—I see it plainly now.”

“Repeat the scene just as it has been enacted before.”

Henry slowly arose from his chair, and walked to the center of the room; here he paused undecidedly.

“Well, what is wrong?”

Very slowly he answered, “I do not know—I—do—not—know.”

James looked puzzled; at last he asked: “Do you mean that you cannot do again that which you have before accomplished—that some peculiar condition is wanting?”

Henry merely repeated helplessly, “I—do—not—know; it is all dark! I cannot find—Aunt—Hattie!” in tone of great distress.

James looked perplexed: “Sit down in your chair,” he said. Henry obeyed, and presently James awoke him; he stretched out his arms, yawning sleepily. “I feel awfully tired, suppose we go to bed!” Evidently he had no remembrance of the hypnotic sleep.

They at once retired; Henry sank immediately into a profound slumber, but James lay for a long time troubling over an idea which had taken possession of his mind. He did not believe Henry guilty of stealing the money, but he believed that he was shielding the person who did take it. Could it be Marjy? The thought made the cold sweat start out on his face; the next instant, when he remembered Marjy’s frank eyes as she appealed to him to try his hypnotic power over Henry, he felt ashamed of the thought; her idea was merely to tease Henry for his strenuous opposition to it, if he could be made to succumb to the influence; but James had an altogether different idea, which he did not mention; as I have said, he believed that Henry knew more about the money than he professed to know. Now, after his experiment, he was completely at a loss; he could form no opinion. He was surprised that he found him so easy a subject; it was perhaps owing to his mental depression, and consequent relaxation of will power.

James had said to Marjy that afternoon, “Perhaps Henry did take the money!”

“I know that he did not!” she answered hotly.

“How do you know that?”

“Just because I do know; I cannot explain how I know, but I know it!”

James, watching the flush in her cheek, was thinking how becoming a touch of anger was to her, but he laughed gayly as he replied: “Woman’s reason; logical of course; just because!”

This returned to him as he lay there too perplexed to sleep. “She is right about it; he did not take the money, or else he would have betrayed it; and this knocks my theory all to pieces, as well; he would have told if he knew who did take it. Confound the whole business! What is it to me, that I should worry over it?” He turned restlessly in the bed, trying to get to sleep.

Presently Henry began to mutter. James grumbled at this fresh annoyance. “I had best have stayed at home,” he said.

Henry lifted himself upon his elbow, whispering rapidly.

“That confounded combination!” exclaimed James in disgust, as he turned over to look at Henry; he caught his breath in surprise.

Slowly, slowly Henry arose, his lips moving rapidly, as a child repeats its lesson to impress it upon his mind. His eyes were widely opened, but with a curious introverted look; he stepped slowly forward, a look of concentration on his ghastly features; he walked to the center of the room exactly where he had before stood; there he paused as though listening: “Aunt Hattie! Aunt Hattie!” he called clearly and distinctly; although the tone was very low, as one speaks who is desirous of being heard by none save the person addressed.

James jumped out of bed, bringing his hands together softly. “I wonder if it is possible!” he cried, quivering with excitement; he hurried on his clothes and fairly flew down the stairs, and let himself into Aunt Hattie’s house.

As he passed the sitting room he cautiously pushed aside the _portières_. Aunt Hattie was on her knees before the safe, repeating the combination in almost exactly the tone in which Henry had spoken. James dashed up the stairs and knocked softly at Marjy’s door.

“Who’s there?” she called in a frightened tone.

“It’s I, James; open the door, Marjy; do not be frightened, but hurry!” Marjy opened the door as requested.

“Oh, what is it?” her voice trembling.

“Nothing which need frighten you. I have found the thief, come!”

Marjy had not disrobed, but was lying on the bed reading, and immediately followed him. He hastily whispered an explanation as they hurried down the stairs; in conclusion he said: “Now, I want you to watch auntie, and see just what she does; I will go back and watch Henry’s movements; he appears like a sleep walker, and auntie seems to be hypnotized. It’s a queer performance, take it as you will.”

Marjy was white and trembling; half afraid, and wholly excited. They drew aside the draperies, auntie had all the papers contained in the safe on the floor, and was now rummaging in every corner as though searching for some missing thing; muttering, muttering to herself all the time.

James hurried back to Henry’s rooms, and left Marjy breathlessly watching Aunt Hattie, who was carefully gathering up the scattered papers, and putting them back in their several places; she then closed and locked the safe.

“Oh!” breathed Marjy, in keen disappointment; she had surely thought that she should know where the money was, and her disappointment was great. She was about to turn away and go to her room, she felt so vexed, when her steps were arrested by hearing her aunt say—as though replying to some person:

“Yes, I will! I forgot—Oh, yes! All right!” and with a quick decided step she walked across the room to a great easy-chair; this she carefully turned upon its side; removed one of the casters, and pulled some bills out of the cavity; she appeared to count them carefully, after which she replaced them, putting the caster in the socket as it belonged. Each one was examined in turn, then with a sigh the chair was placed in its proper position and she sank into its depths with the audible words: “Yes, Henry; it is all right!”

Marjy shivered with superstitious awe; silence unbroken reigned save for the ticking of the clock, and the breathing of Aunt Hattie, as she lay back in the chair looking strangely cadaverous.

James quietly let himself into Henry’s room; he still stood like a specter in the middle of the floor; the red glow of the lamp cast a weird light over his pale features, his expression was fixed and intent; his face was turned slightly sidewise, and he held up one hand as one who listens intently: “Yes, that is right; place everything as you found it, and go to your bed!” As he ceased speaking he turned toward his own bed, rested a moment on its edge, then lay down, and drew the covers over himself as though just retiring; he was soon breathing deeply, and like one in natural slumber.

James threw himself into a chair, and slowly puffed a cigar and thought; finally he arose and yawning stretched his limbs. “I’ll see if Marjy has retired; I think I understand this queer tangle, but I’m blest if I understand how to straighten it out!”

He quietly let himself out of the house, and as quietly entered auntie’s front door; Marjy met him in the hall, and drew him into the sitting room.

“Where is auntie?” he asked.

“Gone to her bed; do tell me what happened in Henry’s room!” she said eagerly. She sat looking at him wide-eyed and wondering, while he related all that had occurred.

“Well, tell me, what do you think of it?” she questioned.

He thoughtfully rolled his cigar in his fingers for a few minutes before replying. “I do not quite know; Henry was certainly asleep. Now the question is just this; could he hypnotize your aunt at such a distance, himself being in a somnambulistic state?”

“I do not think that he is conscious of possessing hypnotic power,” said Marjy.

“No, he would doubtless be indignant if one suggested such a thing; but he certainly has that power, and really, I cannot see why he could not use the force just as well in that state as though awake, so long as his mind intelligently directed it; the will power is just as strong as at any time.”

“It is all very strange! Now that we know where the money is, what are we to do about it?”

“I suppose the proper thing to do would be to tell Aunt Hattie all about to-night’s free show!” and he laughed at the recollection.

“I should really be afraid to tell Aunt Hattie; in her present mood there is no saying what she would, or would not do,” said Marjy.

James replied thoughtfully: “That is true; we had best sleep over it; we will talk it over again in the morning.”

James did not return to Henry’s room, he wished to be alone, that he might better solve the problem which confronted him.

He arose the following morning tired, worn out with sleeplessness, and no nearer a solution than when he retired.

Auntie was in a terrible ill humor, the atmosphere seemed surcharged with discord; throughout the whole day everything seemed to go amiss. Marjy was burning with a desire to tell her aunt, alternated with a shivering fear of her disbelief, and consequent sarcastic remarks. James made a vain endeavor to see Henry; no one knew his whereabouts all day; late in the evening he came to the house, looking pale and dispirited. Marjy clasped his hand in cordial greeting; this elicited an angry ejaculation from Aunt Hattie, beyond which she gave no sign that she knew of his presence.

James and Marjy sat looking over some stereoptic views to cover their desire to watch the two, and both were trying to find a suitable opportunity to bring up the subject of the lost money, so as to be able to explain how they came by their knowledge of the hiding place. The attitude of both Henry and auntie was such as to discourage a commencement. At last James wrote on a card: “You will have to tell them; I will corroborate your account.”

Marjy replied: “Oh, I cannot. It makes me shiver to think of it; they both look so forbidding.”

Henry sat on the corner of a sofa, with his eyes fixed intently on Aunt Hattie; they did not observe this until she arose and stood beside her chair as though waiting; her lips were moving rapidly but inaudibly. Henry, still looking fixedly at her, said slowly: “Speak aloud!” She began repeating the combination, and step by step went through the performance of the previous night, until she had taken the money from its hiding place. Henry at that moment, pale and resolute—though trembling with excitement—commanded her to awaken.

It was most pitiable to see her when she realized her situation; the overturned chair; the casters lying on the floor; the bills grasped in her shaking hands; Marjy and James silently regarding her; Henry, with a look of exhaustion on his face, lay back among the dark cushions. At first she was utterly bewildered; then, as she looked at the bills grasped in her hands, a ray of joy, quickly succeeded by anger, gave her voice: “You think you are awful smart, don’t you? Playing tricks on an old woman! I should like to know what you have been doing to me!” she stormed; then looking at the open safe, and the bills in her hand she began to sob weakly.

“Don’t cry, auntie, it is all right!” said Marjy soothingly.

“No, no! It isn’t right! I remember now—of hiding that money; and to think that I have accused Henry and you of taking it—Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” sobbed she; “I did not remember it until now!” she wailed disconsolately.

Henry came and laid his hand upon her shoulder: “Do not fret, auntie; I think there is no one to blame, if so, it must be my fault. I have always been a somnambulist, and always been ashamed of it—as though I could help it; but I had no idea that I possessed any hypnotic power; in fact I did not believe in the existence of such a force—at least I did not wish to believe it—which in all probability is just what led to this occurrence. You remember that we were speaking of hypnotism the night of the disappearance of the money; Marjy defended the theory, and I opposed it in order to draw her out; some assertions which she made struck me as being very forcible, and I could not rid myself of the thoughts engendered, any more than I could get rid of the repetition of that combination. It has been like a nightmare to me, and each day there had been a shadow of some occurrence of the past night which has persistently evaded me. I have been haunted all this day by something which occurred last night, which seemed like a vivid dream, and I thought I would put it to the test. You cannot be more surprised at the result than I am.”

James and Marjy now came forward: “I think that Marjy and I will also have to make confession; I think that your being able to recall a portion of last night’s events was due to the slight influence which I gained over you; I tried to impress it upon your mind that you must remember what occurred, but I thought that I had failed completely.” He then made a complete explanation, which Marjy fully corroborated. Auntie laughed and sobbed in the same breath: “I’ve been an old crank; but the uncertainty worried me so that I could not help it—and my part of the general confession is that a sense of knowledge—which I could not grasp—tormented me continually, but I would not have confessed it for twice that amount of money. However, “All’s well that ends well.” Marjy, you may have the money to buy a wedding trousseau, and when Henry is my nephew I trust that he will not hypnotize his old aunt, either when he is sleeping or waking.”

HIS FRIEND.

The two log cabins stood on the grassy slopes of opposite mountains, the dark piñons forming a picturesque background; a babbling brook ran between the two, a boundary line of molten silver.

Sam Nesterwood’s door faced north, and Phil Boyd’s door looked south; while they were building the cabins Phil remarked that it looked so much more sociable that way.

When Phil came out in the morning to plunge his wind-browned face into the tin wash basin, filled with cold water from the stream below, he usually saw Sam doing the same; or perhaps, taking the grimy towel off the wooden peg just outside the door, with which he scrubbed his face, and even the tiny bald spot on the top of his head, to a shiny red.

Phil came out as usual one still October morning; the cottonwoods were just turning a soft golden color—fairy gold—in a setting of dark green and gray—autumn’s gorgeous mosaic.

A chipmunk darted saucily by, and just beyond reach sat up chattering a comical defiance; a lone bluebell nodded in the wind, swaying from side to side seeking its vanished companions; blood-red leaves peeped out from under dry grasses, or decked the sides of a gray bowlder.

Phil looked cheerfully around; he snapped his fingers at the saucy squirrel, and laughed at the blinking, black eyes; looking across at the opposite cabin he bawled, “Hello, Sam!”

“Hello yourself!” retorted Sam. This had been the morning salutation, never varied, though all the summer months. Each evening after their day’s work they met at one or the other cabin to compare rock; to talk over a lucky strike, or the mishap of a mutual acquaintance, not that much sympathy was expended or needed.

“Jim’s claim has petered out; he’s out about six months’ work, and all his money.”

“You don’t say! Oh, well, Jim won’t stay broke very long; he’s a hustler.” It was not from want of sympathy, but because of a confidence begotten of this hard life, much as the sparrow might argue, “having never wanted for food, I shall be always fed.”

Later in the morning Phil climbed the steep trail which led to his claim high upon the mountain side. The days were perceptibly growing shorter, and it was quite dark when he came down this October evening. Halfway down the trail he thought he heard a groan.

His halting foot dislodged a stone, and sent it crashing down the mountain side; the rushing sound of a night hawk overhead; the melancholy hoot of an owl in the piñons; the bark of a coyote in the distance, all seemed but to accentuate the silence.

As I have said, night had fallen, coming suddenly, as it ever does in the mountains; no dewy, tender twilight as in lower altitudes; the sun hanging low in the western sky seems phantasm-like to drop behind the distant peaks; a chill wind whistles through the piñons like a softly sung dirge; darkness settles down like a pall—and it is night.

Phil thought that he must be mistaken, and again started on his homeward way; the groaning was repeated almost at his very feet.

He searched vainly, but could find no person, nothing to account for the sound.

Dead silence had fallen again. Phil shivered, “This wind is mighty cold!” he muttered, his hand shaking, his teeth inclined to chatter. He took off his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow, which had gathered in great drops notwithstanding the chill wind; he cast a furtive glance behind him; it was all so terribly uncanny. “Oh! O—h!” came again at his very feet; he gave a frightened start, and an involuntary ejaculation: “Great God!” then gathered himself together and renewed his search, this time rewarded by finding Sam lying under the shelter of a rock badly wounded.

It was a hard task to carry him down that steep trail, and Phil said, pityingly, many times, “It’s awful rough, pard, but there’s no help for it.”

He carried him into the cabin, and laying him on his bed, built a fire, and with a touch gentle as that of a woman bathed and dressed his wound.

He found that a bullet had plowed a ragged furrow down his leg, and shattered the smaller bone halfway between the knee and the ankle.

Phil had a little knowledge of surgery; these nomads of the hills are often far from surgical aid, and of a necessity attain a degree of skill in such matters. Having made his patient as comfortable as possible, Phil lay down on the floor, rolled in a single blanket, to rest until morning.

* * * * *

The autumn days crept by in drowsy calm—a stillness deeper and more sad than in lower altitudes; the whistle of the late bird as he calls to his mate to hasten their migration is unheard here; the shrill notes of the cicada, which fills the autumn days in the moist, odorous woods is unknown in these barren heights; the dry, stubbly bunch grass, the gray, dusty sage brush harbors no insect life save an occasional lonely cricket, and even these are strangely silent. No birds flit from tree to tree save the magpies, with their gorgeous black and white plumage, and their harsh discordant cries, and these are only seen along the streams. An occasional hawk sails above the piñons in graceful curves, or darts downward like an arrow shot from a bow. All else is silent and lifeless.

The sun lies white and brilliant over all; the long shadows lie on the gray ground as though painted there; the tiny streams hurry between their rocky banks, as though in haste to get away from a too cloudless sky.

Long stretches of hills rise and fall away, dry, desolate and gray; a weird loneliness and beauty lies over all—the grandeur of desolation.

The leaves had fluttered down to the bare earth, and a few flakes of snow had been tossed about by the nipping wind, ere Sam Nesterwood was able to tell the story of his accident. He was riding up the trail to a claim he thought of relocating; he considered the broncho he rode “all right,” but some reminiscence of his forefathers, some prompting of the wild blood which is never wholly subdued, must have possessed the animal, for without the slightest warning, head down, back arched like an angry cat, he bucked outrageously.

Sam was too good a rider to be easily thrown, but the unexpected movement threw his pistol from his belt; it struck the pommel of the saddle, discharging its contents into his leg, and although it felt as though red-hot iron tore through the flesh, he still retained his seat; then he must have fainted, for he knew no more until near nightfall. When consciousness returned he was lying on the ground; he felt chilled through, and his limb was so stiff and sore that he could scarcely move. He sought to get nearer to a large rock for shelter from the cold wind; it had by this time grown quite dusk, and beneath the rock was so dark that he could not see, thus he rolled into the hole beneath, where Phil found him.

During all the time of Sam’s illness, Phil each day climbed the rugged trail to work for a neighboring miner, letting his own assessment work wait, while he earned the money to pay doctor’s bills, buy medicines, supply Sam with books to read, and delicacies to tempt his appetite. Phil denied himself all but the barest subsistence. Sam smoked cigars, read books, and ate the most expensive delicacies, as though such things were no more than his right.

Thus affairs went on until near the beginning of February. Sam was practically well, but he made no effort to get about.

Phil had bought a great easy-chair for him in the first stages of his convalescence, and he sat in the coziest corner, and piled the fireplace high with wood, although Phil had to “snake” it more than half a mile down the steep mountain side.

* * * * *

It was a bitter night; the wind blew bleak over the hills, driving the little snow that had fallen before it, so many needle like points, which left the face stinging with pain. Just at nightfall it had grown warmer, and the scudding clouds began to drop their fleecy burden, a fairy mantle over all the rugged hills.

Phil came home covered with snow, his long mustache ridiculously lengthened by icicles, his eyebrows white as those of Father Time.

He set his lunch pail down moodily, and shook himself much as a spaniel shakes the water from his shaggy coat; he threw himself on a bench before the fire with a tired sigh; and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin dropped in his upturned palms.

Sam shivered as some of the flying particles of snow struck him.

“Can’t you be a little more careful; you’ll give me my death of cold yet!” he grumbled.

“I did not intend to wet you,” answered Philip very gently, not changing his position.

“You must be down in the dumps! What is the matter with you?” said Sam irritably.

This habit of half-grumbling and fault-finding had become so common with Sam that Phil made no reply. After a minute’s silence, he began again:

“Aren’t we going to have any supper to-night? It’s most infernal monotonous sitting here alone all day with nothing to read, and not even a square meal.”

Phil arose wearily, and began laying the cloth on the table; soon the bacon was sizzling merrily, the teakettle bumping the lid up and down for very joy, and the fragrance of coffee filled the room.

Phil took from the box nailed against the wall a small dish of peaches, a couple of slices of cake, and a little cheese, which he put beside Sam’s plate.

“Supper is ready,” said he gravely.

Sam arose lazily, and Phil wheeled his easy-chair up to the table; then poured out the coffee, and drew up his own rough bench. He offered a slice of the bacon to Sam, before helping himself.

“No,” said Sam testily, “I’m tired of bacon. I hate the very smell of it. I do wish I could have something decent to eat!”

Phil made no reply, but ate his bread and bacon, and drank his coffee in silence. Sam leaned back in his chair, his head resting on the cushion, and looked at Phil from under half-closed eyelids. “Your countenance is an appetizer! You are about as cheerful as a tombstone!” a curious anxiety underlying his sneering tone.

As Phil did not reply, he continued: “Can’t you open your clam shell, and spit out your grievance? I suppose I have offended your saintship in some way, ’though what I’ve done except to stay all alone and put up with all sorts of discomforts is more than I know,” the questioning tone in the first part of his speech shading off into a sullen grumbling toward the end.

Phil lifted his gloomy face.

“I have given you no reason for that kind of talk; I can’t grin very much when some galoot has jumped my claim,” he replied slowly.

“You don’t say! Who the deuce——”

“The name marked on the new stake is Jim Redmond, but that don’t count much,” answered Phil despondently.

“I suppose you think I’d be sneak enough to do it,” retorted Sam, the strange, questioning look deepening in his eyes.

“Oh, come off, Sam! What is the use of talking that kind of stuff? I’m not quite so suspicious as that; why, you haven’t been up the trail in months,” answered Phil, with a kindly look.

“No; and my name is not Jim Redmond; but you ought to have done your assessment work; you can’t very well blame him, whoever he may be.”

“No; p’raps not,” said Phil slowly, and it seemed somewhat doubtingly; then he added: “What makes me sore is that it was looking so good. Well, there’s no use in wearing mourning, I suppose;” and he tried to laugh cheerfully. After supper, notwithstanding the inclemency of the night Phil trudged patiently the long six miles into town, that Sam might have the coveted books, and a tender steak for his breakfast.

Sam evinced no desire to return to his own cabin; on the contrary he said, in his peculiarly soft tones, “I guess we’d better finish the winter together, hadn’t we, Phil? I’m not very strong yet, and one fire will do for both; of course I’ll put up my share of the grub.”

“Oh, that’s all right; I’m glad of your company,” replied Phil.

Sam must have considered his company a sufficient compensation, for he contributed nothing toward the expense of living; he took the most and the best of everything; the choicest of the food; the only chair; the warmest corner of the fireplace; and the only good bed. If he ever saw Phil’s self denial, he made no sign. If Phil ever thought him selfish, he did not show it; that which he gave he gave royally.

One evening Phil came in from work; it was bitter cold; the stars snapped and twinkled; the frost showed a million glittering points in the white moonlight; the ground cracked like tiny pistol shots; the wind whistled shrilly, and cut like a whiplash.

Phil shook himself, and threw off his cap and coat:

“This is a scorcher and no mistake,” he stretched out his hands basking in the warmth.

Sam had hovered over the fire all day, reading. He leaned back in his chair, a tantalizing light in his eyes.

“You’ve been working the Mollie Branscome,” he asserted, rather than asked.

Phil nodded his head. Sam continued: “I say, Phil, is Mollie Branscome your sweetheart, that you named your claim after her?”

Phil colored painfully, but after a minute he replied dryly: “It must be information you’re seekin’; I wasn’t aware that it concerned anyone but myself.”

Sam laughed sneeringly.

“Awful close with your little romance!”

To Phil it was a romance; and in giving the name to his claim he but obeyed the impulse to have it ever on his lips. “Mollie,” his manner of speaking it was ever a caress.

Sam laughed, and passed the remark off as a joke.

One day Sam brought Phil a letter from his old father, asking him to come home, as he was very ill and wished to see him once more before he died. Phil turned the letter over thoughtfully, and Sam hastened to say: “I tried to get on to the horse, and he jumped sideways and dumped the whole pile of mail into the dirt; it’s an awful mess, but I couldn’t help it,” apologetically.

“Oh ’t wasn’t that! but the old man’s writing don’t look natural. I am afraid he is pretty bad.” He pulled his mustache thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“I don’t just see how I can manage it. I have just about money enough to get there, but none to return,” said he.

Sam leaned back in his chair, blowing a long cloud of smoke meditatively. Finally he said: “I had an offer for the Little Darling this morning; you go, if you want to, and I’ll make the deal, and send you a fifty; you can pay it after you come back.”

Phil’s face lit up with a pleasant smile.

“Sam, it’s awful good of you!” he exclaimed impulsively.

“Oh, I’m always willing to do a favor when I can,” nonchalantly, seeming to be utterly forgetful of all that Phil had done for him; unmindful that at this very moment he was smoking Phil’s tobacco, warming himself at Phil’s fire, and this moment contemplating the eating of the food of Phil’s providing. His manner of speaking would imply that this was but one more of many benefits of his conferring.

As Phil was leaving to go to his father, Sam said:

“I’ll take good care of everything for you.”

“All right! thanks, and good-by!” called Phil heartily.

Phil’s father was very much surprised to see him; no message had been sent; and he was well but none the less glad to see Phil.

Phil wrote to Sam at once, but as he received no reply wrote again and again.

He did not need money, as his father had given him more than enough, but he feared that some ill had befallen his friend.

As Phil left the stagecoach on his return home, three months later, he at once sought Mollie; he had received no letter from her during his absence, although he had repeatedly written. He knocked, and Mollie herself opened the door. Phil reached out his hand in glad greeting; she drew back coldly.

“Is there anything you wish, sir?” as she would address a stranger.

Phil’s face flushed hotly, then went deadly pale. He looked at her reproachfully.

“I think not,” he replied sadly, as he turned away.

With natures such as these a tragedy may occur unobserved by the bystander.

To Phil the sun seemed to have set, all looked so dark and gloomy. As he swung off over the lonely mountain trail, the gurgling water in the brook below seemed to mock him; the scent of the springing vegetation caused a feeling of irritation, his heart was so full of bitter disappointment.

Lonely and more lonely grew the way; no life save himself, he just a dark speck upon that yellow trail crawling up the mountain side. Even his panting breath seemed to disturb the dead calm, as he paused—taking off his hat—to look up to his cabin. He shaded his eyes, and looked eagerly. Only a blackened spot marked where his home—humble, but still a home—had stood. He looked higher up the side of the mountain to where the Mollie Branscome lay; he drew his breath sharply; where he had left a windlass and bucket, a frame shafthouse arose. The sharp spurt of steam rising on the fast chilling air denoted a perfectly set valve; he saw hurrying forms of men at work; he shut his teeth hard together, a fiery red spot rising in either cheek. He felt neither fatigue nor depression now; he breathed stertoriously as he toiled up the steep trail.

Sam was the first person that he met.

Phil pointed to a name above the shafthouse door: “The New Discovery.” “What does that mean?” he demanded hoarsely.

“What’s it to you?” answered Sam derisively.

Poor Phil! His blood seemed on fire. The sneer; the taunting look; it was like letting a brilliant light shine into a dark place; he knew by that ‘sixth sense,’ intuition, all the treachery of this false friend. He knew who had sent him upon a fool’s errand; he knew who had stolen his first claim, and had some accomplice mark the stake in a false name; a memory of his systematic sponging for more than half a year goaded him to madness; many, very many acts, before unconsidered, came to his mind fraught with meaning. The veins on his forehead stood out like purple cord, and he made a wild lunge at Sam. Sam turned to run; he stepped on a rolling stone and went down helplessly; he lay there glaring up at Phil, fear and vindictive hatred strangely blent in his gaze.

Phil stood over him like an avenger:

“So! You thought to rob me of this claim as you did of the other, did you?” his voice quivering hoarsely.

“You’ve got me down, now strike me!” answered Sam, his eyes glaring wildly, his teeth showing like those of a wild animal. “Yes, I did jump your claim; and I’ve got the papers to show for the Mollie Branscome; the Mollie Branscome! You thought you were awful sly, but I jumped that claim too; your letters to her put me on. She thinks you went East to marry your old love; _we_ are going to be married to-morrow night!” he cried tauntingly; he seemed to have gone insane with rage.

As Phil listened to him the fierce anger died out of his face, and contempt took its place; but he only ejaculated:

“You contemptible cur!” as he stepped back and folded his arms.

The workmen had gathered about, and stood in silent amazement; their looks seemed to anger Sam still more, and he continued his insane taunting:

“Oh, you wanted me to take care of your things, didn’t you? I took care of them, oh, yes!” and he thrust his tongue in his cheek derisively.

He had risen to his feet by this time, and stood leaning his back against the shafthouse. Phil stood a minute without speaking, pity struggling with contempt in his heart; finally he said slowly, and without a trace of anger:

“Well! You’re slopping over pretty freely. If you burned my cabin thinking to destroy my papers, you got left; I took them with me, and you must have forgotten that they are recorded. As to the other affair which you have tangled with your dirty fingers, I think that I can straighten that out all right. You are too contemptible to whip, but I advise you to make yourself scarce.”

“I believe he did burn that cabin, because no one has ever been inside of _his_ shack since the fire; probably he has some things there that he’d rather not have seen. I always thought that things looked mighty queer,” said big Cal Wagner.

“Let’s all quit work. I’ll not strike another stroke for the likes of ’im,” said Denny Colby.

“Say, aren’t you the fellow that took care of this skunk when he was hurt?” asked Cal.

“Yes,” tersely replied Phil.

“Well, you’d better git up and dust, you miserable apology for a man!” cried Cal, indignantly turning to Sam.

“And he made out that you had skipped the country, and that he bought the claim, so that you needn’t go dead broke. If he don’t leave it’s a necktie party we’ll be havin’!” added Denny Colby.

“Oh, let him alone, boys; he isn’t worth the rope it would take to hang him; upon my word I pity him, he is so _con_temptible that I don’t think he can enjoy his own company,” drawled Phil lazily.

Sam limped away unmolested, cursing wildly as far as they could hear him.

Phil turned from looking after him, and said to the men, “It makes me feel pretty sore, but I guess that he feels worse’n I do,” he added philosophically. After a few minutes he continued, “You might as well knock off for the rest of the day, I don’t suppose he will give me any trouble because he knows that I have the papers to prove my right. I’ll square whatever wages is coming to you as soon as I get things in good shape.”

A hearty grasp of the hand, and a ready acquiescence sealed the compact.

Phil swung himself down the mountain side in a much more joyous mood than when ascending.

He walked direct to Mollie’s house, and as before she opened the door; she started in surprise and anger; he did not wait for her to speak, but said in a determined tone, “You asked me this morning if there was anything that I wished, and not understanding the circumstances I said no; I have since learned some things which caused me to change my mind—Mollie, would you condemn me unheard?” reaching out both hands.

She, flushing and trembling, stood irresolute for one minute, then placed her hands in his.

“No, that would not be just; but why did you not write?”

“I did write several times, but could get no reply from you.”

“I wonder—” she commenced, but Phil cut the sentence short.

“Were you going to marry Sam, Mollie?”

“What an idea! That conceited thing!” answered Mollie indignantly.

They had entered the little parlor, and Phil caught her in his arms and said quizzically, “What about me?”

Just what Mollie answered I had best not repeat, but it seemed to be perfectly satisfactory, as he left the house an hour later, whistling as happily as a boy.

* * * * *

Just after dark Sam hurried into town, cursing his lameness and Phil, indiscriminately; he wanted to keep things square with Mollie, as he expressed it.

As he came near the house he observed that the little parlor was brilliantly lighted; his heart filled with exultation: “I’ll bet Mollie is expecting me! Let Phil keep his old claims; the girl is worth more than all of them; it will hurt him most to lose her, too. Of course it was all a lie about our going to be married; but I can get her all right, you bet there isn’t many women but that I could get!” with a ridiculous air of importance.

He knocked confidently, and was at once ushered into the midst of a number of guests. Coming as he did, from the darkness, the glare of the lights blinded him; but as he advanced into the room, Cal Wagner said, “We were waiting for you, sir. Please be seated.”

Turning to the group near the center of the room, he continued, “Reverend sir, this is the guest we were expecting; will you now proceed with the ceremony.”

Looking radiantly happy, Mollie and Phil took their places in front of the minister, and the solemn marriage service commenced.

Sam made a bolt for the door; but Cal’s great hand closed over his shoulder like a vise, and he was compelled to stand and see his last shred of revenge slip away from him, amid the happy smiles of those around him.

Then he crept out into the darkness, out of the ken of those who knew him, blaming everybody but himself, yet at war with himself and all the world, because he had not succeeded in ill-doing.

Phil said to his wife: “I am sorry for him; I wish he had been content to be my friend; I did like Sam.”

Of course there was not the slightest opposition to Phil’s assuming control of his own property, but his conscience troubled him because Sam had built the shafthouse: “I had much rather have paid him for it,” he remarked; but when later he learned that neither lumber nor labor were paid for, and all bought upon his credit, he had no more regrets.

A TALE OF THE X RAY.

Christopher Hembold had a mania for experimenting.

He had tried everything from hypnotism to electricity, when the “X” ray was first talked about. He could think or talk of nothing else; he perused every magazine and paper with greedy avidity in search of articles concerning it.

“Christopher, do put that paper down and eat your breakfast,” said his wife.

Mrs. Hembold was a nervous little woman, and it annoyed her to hear the newspaper rattle, and she disliked to have it held so as to hide her Christopher from view.

“But, Maria, just listen, here’s more about that wonderful discovery—” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Christopher Hembold! Eat your breakfast! I care much more that the steak and coffee are getting cold than I do for that nonsense.”

“You have no sympathy, Maria; the mysteries of science are beyond your appreciation!” he exclaimed, as he folded the paper in dignified displeasure.

“Appreciate fiddlesticks!” angrily retorted Maria, stirring her coffee vigorously.

Said Christopher, the next morning at the breakfast table:

“Maria, I am going to Abbeyville on business, and shall in all probability be detained a month.”

“What business have you in Abbeyville?” asked Maria in surprise.

“It is business of a private nature, which you wouldn’t understand,” answered he loftily.

“Which is a polite way of telling me that it is none of my business,” retorted Maria in a huff.

Christopher left the house in dignified anger; his portly figure and handsome profile the admiration of his wrathful wife. The fact was, he did not wish to talk; he had determined that he would investigate the “X” ray to his own satisfaction. A certain idea haunted him by day, and mingled with his dreams at night; it thrust itself between him and the long columns in the ledger; until, with a finger on the figures, he would fix his eyes on vacancy, and go off into a deep study.

At last Mr. Brown, his employer, said to him:

“What is the matter with you Christopher? Are you ill?”

“No—yes—not very,” answered Christopher confusedly.

“You had better take a layoff until you feel better,” said Brown; adding mentally, “You are of no use here; you’ll mix those accounts until it will take an expert a week to straighten them.”

Christopher packed his grip with a sigh of satisfaction, and left home on the evening train.

Maria gave a little regretful sigh. “He might have kissed me; he didn’t even say good-by.”

She presently began thinking how preoccupied he looked, and how strange he had acted.

“I do wonder if he was in trouble! I ought not have been so cross, but he should have told me; so there!” After a minute of troubled thought, she added: “Perhaps he didn’t want to worry me.”

Whenever Christopher was present she must give him a dig as often as the opportunity occurred; but no sooner was he away than all his good qualities became apparent.

Instead of stopping at Abbeyville, Christopher hastened on to a city more than a thousand miles away. “I’ll just call myself John Smith, and I shall not be bothered while making my investigations,” said he complacently.

The next morning after his arrival he sought out the noted Professor Blank, and at some length explained his project; in conclusion he said:

“You understand that I wish to be cathodographed many times; the working of the brain has always been a tantalizing puzzle to me. What I wish to search out is, how the different emotions affect the gray matter; for instance, it is claimed that this bump is combativeness;” placing his hand on the region indicated. “It is also claimed that all qualities, whether good or bad, are capable of being cultivated; that the bump indicating that trait or quality grows perceptibly larger; well, then, the substance known as gray matter must undergo a change; whenever that emotion is unduly excited, the gray matter must quiver, vibrate; in fact change position. Have you never felt as though your brain must burst with the intensity of emotion? I have; and am eager to test it with the ‘X’ ray.” He paused as though for an answer, but receiving none, continued: “Now in order to test this, I wish to subject myself to every possible emotion, and in every change be photographed.”

The professor smiled incredulously.

“How are you to obtain these changes of mood? Such emotions usually come without our choosing.”

“True! Well, I shall endeavor to create the emotion as I wish it.”

The professor laughed aloud. “I think under such conditions that the emotion would be altogether too tame to have a visible effect on the brain.”

Christopher resented the laughter: “Perhaps you are not willing to assist me in making my experiments?” he questioned angrily.

“Oh, yes; perfectly willing,” was the smiling answer.

“Now, look here! I wish to investigate this carefully, and I’m willing and able to pay your price; but I’ll not be ridiculed sir, I’m no boy, I’ll have you understand!”

“No, of course not,” answered the professor soothingly, he thought him a mild lunatic; really he seemed half insane; no matter what reply the professor made, he grew more wroth, until he, out of all patience, said angrily: “What is the matter with you? You act like a maniac!”

“Quick! Quick! Photograph me!” cried Christopher, with livid lips.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the professor in astonishment, as he hastily complied with the request; after which Christopher sank back, pale and trembling.

The professor looked at him admiringly: “How did you accomplish it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I just let go of the strings;” smiling faintly.

Thus he went through the whole scale of emotions; he was taken while under the influence of anæsthetics; in a placid mood; in a moment of most uproarious hilarity; in the depths of despondency; in languishing amorousness; in fact, in all conceivable moods of the human mind. He seemed to possess the strange faculty of producing any desired emotion at will.

After he had exhausted all moods, he one day stood gazing meditatively, and rather sadly at the plates.

“Are you not satisfied?” asked the professor.

Christopher sighed deeply: “No, I cannot say that I am; it is certainly shown that there is a change, the exact nature of which is by no means clearly defined. Some future discovery will, I am sure, enable the scientist to see the action of the brain as plainly as we now know the action of the heart.”

He nervously ran his fingers through his hair while speaking; he withdrew his hand with an exclamation of horror: it was covered with hairs and a cloud of the same enveloped him.

“Heaven! Is all my hair falling out?” he cried in dismay.

The professor calmly observed: “I have noticed it for some time; when you first came your mustache and eyebrows were very thick and long, but have been gradually thinning, I thought several times that I would speak of it, but we have had so much else to talk about, and the most of your moods have been so peculiar—” he smiled as he paused.

“Oh, it’s all right for you to laugh! You wouldn’t if you were in my shoes! Whatever will Maria say?”

He stood ruefully looking at his reflection in the mirror. “I look like a kid!” said he scornfully. “I have been so busy with this confounded foolishness that I did not think of looking in a glass. Pshaw! I’m going to drop this nonsense and go home; I know that my wife is worried about me before this time. I haven’t written to her since I came here. I didn’t want her to know what I was doing.”

“You ought to have told her, though,” said the professor.

“You don’t know Maria!” said Christopher sadly. “Confound it! How my head aches! Now that I take time to think of it, I know that it has ached for a week.”

The following morning Christopher was very ill, and was not able to leave his room for weeks. When at last he arose, he giddily crossed the room to the mirror, and looked at himself; he sank into a chair with a groan; not a vestige of hair remained on head or face.

He covered his long, leathery face with his hands, and cried aloud: “I look like a great big sole-leather baby! Whatever will Maria say! I’ll never tell her that it is the effect of that confounded “X” ray; if I did I should never hear the last of it; I’ve been sick, I am sick—sick of the whole business.”

Meanwhile at home, Maria had at first reproached herself with her irritability, and finished by writing Christopher a loving, and penitent little note, which she sent to Abbeyville. Of course she received no reply.

“He must have been very angry,” she sobbingly exclaimed.

She wrote again, a still more penitent and pleading letter; this not being answered, she became very indignant.

“If he wants to be so awfully huffy, let him!” she said wrathfully; but when a whole month passed, and no tidings came as to his whereabouts, she became alarmed, and began to institute cautious inquiries.

Of course, all search proved unavailing, and Maria wept and mourned her Christopher as dead.