The Howe Messenger (Howe, Tex.), Vol. 14, No. 47, Ed. 1 Friday, November 19, 1937 Page: 3 of 10
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Triday, November 19, 1937
THE HOWE MESSENGER
CATTLE KINGDOM
By ALAN LE MAY ------------
CHAPTER XI—Continued
—13—
Too much long riding alone—espe-
-cially when it was mixed up
with the night riders’ long rope—
•could do queer things to a man
whose head wasn’t too strong in the
.first place. Lon Magoon, half out-
law, half sneak-thief, all coyote,
might have turned at last into some-
filing which must be destroyed at
sight, without hesitation.
Then he walked to the dead horse
-and roughly verified the angle of
file shot; then turned and began to
climb the canyon slope.
“Billy, come back! You can’t—”
“You stay down,” he ordered her
savagely. “Or by God, I’ll tie you
down with my piggirig-string!”
It would have been easy then to
walk into gunfire, easy to shoot it
cut with an ambushed man. Al-
ways keeping his eye on Marian’s
position, he searched those upper
slopes, backward, forward, and
chartering. But what happened to
him was the one hardest thing ©f
all—to find the broken country emp-
jty and silent, with nothing in it to
fight or trail.
In the end he could only go back
to the girl with no result to show,
and no assurance as to what was
ahead. He would not have been sur-
prised, when he turned his back on
that emptiness, if a gun had spoken
from a place where no one was,
and brought him down.
“No catchum,” he told Marian.
She had not stayed under cover,
but was sitting on a rock, a little
apart from her dead horse. No use
quarreling with her over that; she
had already proved to him that he
couldn’t control anything she chose
to do. He put himself between her
and the rim. “It’s a long walk
back,” he said morosely. “That’s
my fault. I’m not used to this stuff,
or I wouldn’t have lost my pony.
When I saw your horse drop—I lost
my head, I guess.”
“Because it was I,” she said with
an unexpected, deep-striking clarity.
“We’d better get going, I think.”
“We can’t go on? And get—”
“That must have been the man
we were after, that killed your
horse.”
She drew a deep breath, and stood
up. For a moment she looked all
about her, upward at the high, tow-
ering rims. Then suddenly he saw
her sway.
He stepped forward in time to
steady her with his hands on her
arms. And now he found that she
was trembling violently. Her face
was white, making her eyes look
enormous, and very dark. “Billy—
I’m afraid—” She sat down on the
rock again, as if her knees would
not hold her up.
“No more danger, child. It’s all
over, and he’s gone.”
“But who could it be? Why should
he want to—hurt me?”
“I—I don’t know that. I can’t
Imagine any living thing wanting to
hurt you. I swear, by la Madre de
.Dios!—he’ll pay for it if I live to
find him. Now don’t you be afraid
any more. It’s all over, for now.”
The tears began to roll down her
face, and she hid them with her
hands. Quickly he looked about him,
checking the throw of the land. Then
he lifted her up and led her to a
pocket gully at the foot of the pre-
cipitous north slope. When he had
made sure that searching lead could
not reach them here, he got the
blanket from her dead pony, and
spread it for her to rest upon; and
gathered bits of dead brush to build
a tiny fire. “Striking fire kind of
seems like setting up a.mark,” he
apologized. “But you’re plenty safe
if you stay close under the rock
split. Now you take it easy. We’ll
rest here an hour or so; then we’ll
go back.”
Marion drew up her knees, and hid
her eyes against them. One of her
hands reached out to him uncer-
tainly, and he took it. Her fingers
were moist and cold, with a tremor
in them; he warmed them between
his hands, noticing how huge his
hands were made to look by her slim
fingers.
Presently she looked up, shook her
head sharply, and drew away her
hand. "I’m all right now. Did you
ever see such silliness?”
“Rest easy. We’ve got lots of
time.”
The dusk had closed more rapidly
at the last, and little light was left
in the sky; but a moon was rising
behind a high point of rocks, sil-
houetting a crag that looked like a
horse’s head.
He noticed how huge it looked, as
moons do when they are low to the
earth. The horse-head crag had a
400-foot profile, but it looked little
against the moon, which was made
to look bigger than a mountain, big-
ger than a range.
“You know,” he said, “it’s funny
how badly things work out; never
the way you want them to be. Many
and many a night, lying out in the
hills, watching my fire—like this—
I’ve thought about how it would be,
if you were there. How I’d get you
to like these hills, and the coyotes
talking, and the smell of smoke in
your hair—you know, foolish stuff.”
"I do love the hills,” she said.
He shook his head. “This isn’t
it. This isn’t right. You ought to
be able to lie by your fire and smell
pine timber. And that crick out
there ought to have water running
in it. You sit and listen to running
water, and pretty soon you get to
hear voices in it; sometimes you
lie awake for hours trying to get
what they say. But what’s more to
the point, there’s likewise trout in
the water. There ought to be a nice
pan of trout frying, here on the
fire.”
“You fit with things like that, you
Know. As if you were made out of
them.”
He said, “A half hour’s rest in
the rocks, with a long, long walk
ahead—this is about as close as peo-
ple get to the way they want things,
I suppose.”
“It’s my fault, Billy. If I hadn’t
been so stubborn you wouldn’t have
lost your horse; you’d have gone
on through.”
“Shucks, now!”
She was silent, and they sat look-
ing into the fire. The smell of au-
tumn was cool and clean in the air,
across the dry sage; and the red-
gold moon faintly mellowed the chill
of darkness on the gaunt hills, so
that they sat here in unreality, as if
in a dream.
“Some places,” he said, “they call
that a harvest moon; the Indians
call it the hunting moon, and they
used to make smoke-medicines by
it.”
“What do you call it?”
“Well—sometimes we call it a
coyote moon. Because it puts a
“Well, You See—” She Met His
Eyes Again—“I Win.”
kind of singing craze on the coyotes.
They gather around on hill tops,
seems like, and sing their hearts
out, as if it drove them wild crazy,
' some way. Listen.”
Far off, so faint a whisper that it
seemed half imagined, they could
hear now a queer high crooning,
full of an interwoven yapping and
trilling, like nothing else on earth.
“It sounds,” Marian said, “as if
there were 40 or 50 of them—sitting
somewhere on a mountain in a
ring.”
“Two,” he told her. “They pair
off this time of year.”
“Two,” she repeated. “Then
that’s why there’s something more
than moon madness in that sing-
ing.”
He knew that they should be start-
ing the long return, but he could not
bring himself to say so. The thing
that had brought them together
again—the disaster to Horse Dunn
and the 94—had nearly run its
course. And he knew that it was
a good thing for him that it had.
Already he had lived under the
same roof with Marian too long
for his own good. He no longer
had any hope that he could forget
her; she would always be in the
back of his mind some place, wait-
ing to come real and close to him in
his dreams.
He supposed he would have to
learn to live with those dreams. To
sit with her now, far out and alone
beside the little fire was itself an
unreal and precious thing, now that
he no longer fought against it. A
quiet peace had come upon this
place; or something as near peace
as he ever knew any more. She
was very near to him, so near that
though their shoulders did not
touch, it seemed to him that he
could feel her warmth; and her
hair, with the firelight in it, was a
warm smoky mist, shot with gold,
clouding his eyes.
They sat for a long time listening
to the faint coyote song and the lit-
tle popping of the fire. Once, as
they sat quiet, he heard far off a
thing he did not understand. It was
so distant and so muffled that he
could not at once decide whether it
could have been the fall of a rock
from a high place, or had been the
report of a gun far away up the
canyon, smothered by close walls
and the drift of the air. He glanced
at Marian to see if she had noticed
it, and saw that she had not.
Marian looked at him, the firelight
pooling long shadows under the
lashes of her steady eyes. “I just
thought of something.”
“What was it?”
“This—isn’t it kind of funny?—
this is exactly the situation we were
speaking of the other day.”
He was puzzled. “When was this?”
“In Inspiration.”
For a moment he didn’t get it.
Then it came back to him in a rush
—the blast of sun upon the dusty
street, the atmosphere of silent,
waiting hostility, the groups of
spurred and booted men in door-
ways, watching without seeming to
watch; and he had stood talking to
Marian across the door of a car,
not thinking about what was ahead.
“ ‘If you and I were set afoot,’ ”
she quoted, “ ‘some place far off in
the mountains at night, with only
one blanket between us—’ ”
He was resting perfectly still on
one elbow, looking at the fire; but
he could feel her eyes, so near his
face, watching him under her
lashes. And behind her eyes he
supposed she was laughing at him.
“I was right,” she said. “You
didn’t know it then, but. you can see
it now. You see—it seems a good
deal different, now that we’re really
here.”
“Does it?” he said without ex-
pression. He got up with a sort
of stiff, slow leisure, for the little
fire was burning low. He went be-
yond the fire, squatted on one heel
beside it, and fed it pieces of
stick.
“You see, I know you, Billy.
Sometimes I think I know you better
than I know myself.” Her eyes
wavered and drifted out toward the
low young stars. “I can remember
when I was afraid of you. If we
had been out here then—two years
ago—I would have ’wanted nothing
so much as to get back among other
people. That’s all gone, now.”
He looked at her. She had never
seemed more lovely, more human,
more elementally desirable than she
looked now, a tired girl in cow-
country work clothes, slim and lazy,
relaxed by the little fire as if she
had never known any other resting
place in her life. Her face was
quiet, almost grave; but though
her eyes looked drowsy there was a
little gleam in them that did not
come from the flame in front: a
small provocative glimmer of fire
within, which he had seen in her
eyes only two or three times in
his life—and never before the last
two or three days.
Their eyes met and held, his
steady and masked within, hers
seeming to laugh at him a little,
half veiled by her lashes.
“I said,” she reminded him, “that
if we were—in a situation like this,”
there wouldn’t be anything for me
to worry about, nothing at all. And
you said, if I thought that I was a
fool. Well, you see—” she met his
eyes again—“I win.”
Still her eyes held, and he could
not understand why hers did not
drop. “I can’t believe, hardly,” he
said, “that you have any idea what
sort of thing you’re talking about.”
She smiled. “You think I don’t?
That’s because western men are
certainly the most conventional peo-
ple in the world.”
Suddenly he angered. He had not
brought her here of his own will,
nor set them afoot, nor wished to
rest here with her. He would not
even have been on her range, or
within a day’s ride of it, if her in-
terests had not drawn him in and
held him. She had made her de-
cisions in regard to him long ago,
and to change them he had spent
his every resource without any ef-
fect. And now, at the last—it
amused her to torment him. It
seemed to him that there was a
capricious she-devil in that girl—
perhaps in all women, given op-
portunity.
“You see, I know you,” she was
saying again.
The masks behind his eyes
dropped away, and though his face
hardly changed his eyes reddened,
It’s the last round-up for the mus-
tang of the western range country.
Thoroughbred stock is fast replac-
ing the tough, nimble-footed horse
which was the pioneer’s staunchest
ally in creating a ranch empire.
Sharply changed conditions have
minimized the importance of the
horse in the modern live stock indus-
try, with the result that the mus-
tang — the Southwest’s distinctive
breed of horse—is no longer in great
demand.
The vast ranches which once
stretched for miles across the plains,
unfenced and with indefinite bound-
aries, have given way to compact
units, the largest seldom more than
a few thousand acres.
These smaller ranches, writes a
Del Rio, Texas, correspondent in the
Cleveland Plain Dealer, with new
methods of Jitock raising, and the
free use of motor vehicles, have less
need of the durable mustang which
seeming to smoke with an angry
fire that came up behind. She her-
self had lighted that fire, long ago.
It was a fire that had driven him re-
lentlessly, making him rich; it could
have made him work for her all her
life—or it could break him again,
and drive him up and down the
world. Suddenly he did not know
whether he loved or hated this girl.
“I’ll give you the same answer I
gave you in Inspiration,” he said,
his words almost inaudible, even
against the stillness of the night.
“If you think that, you’re a little
fool.”
Still she met his eyes, so long, so
steadily, so knowingly that he won-
dered for an instant what was hap-
pening, was going to happen, there
under the coyote moon.
Then he saw her face change, so
that she was suddenly pale, and
the unreadable light in her eyes
went out, and she was like a little
girl. Abruptly she pressed her face
hard into her hands.
He made his voice as hard and
cold as the rocks that hung over
them. “Now what?”
She answered in a muffled voice,
“I was wrong—I am afraid. I—I
fail every one . . . ’’ She lifted her
head and glanced about her, as if
she were seeing this place for the
first time. A black shape lay be-
side the empty dust of the stream,
like a great black bottle overturned
—the carcass of Marian’s dead
horse. Suddenly the girl turned side-
ways, and dropped her head in her
arms upon the blanket. She began
to cry, terribly, silently except for
the choke of her breath.
He sat down against a rock and
waited. The gaunt, dead rock-hills
leaned over them sadly cold and
silent, blackened by the twisted
ghost, shapes of the parched brush.
And the coyote moon was pale and
old, no longer golden, but greenish,
like phosphorus rubbed on a dead
and frozen face.
Once she said, “But it’s your
fault, too—that I fail—your fault as
much as my own.”
His answer was perfectly honest
“I don’t know what you mean.”
CHAPTER Xn
It was impossible for him to sit
waiting for her weeping to stop,
while her slim body shook con-
vulsively with her effort to suppress
it, and her breath jerked uncontrol-
lably in her throat. Her tumbled
hair made her seem a child; he had
never seen her look so small, so
fragilely made. And he thought he
had never in his life seen anything
so pitifully in need of comforting.
He swore under his breath and
got to his feet
For a few moments he stood over
her, watching the movement of the
firelight in her hair. He could hard-
ly prevent himself from touching
her; almost he stooped and picked
her up in his arms. But he was
telling himself that that was the last
thing she wanted.
He walked out a little way into the
dark, and stood listening to the night
silence. He was still worrying about
the distant muffled sound of concus-
sion which he had heard. It seemed
to him now that what he had heard
was unquestionably the sound of a
gun—perhaps a gun fired near the
forgotten miner’s shanty at the up-
per end of the gulch; but what he
could not imagine was who could
have fired it. He had assumed that
it was Lon Magoon who had killed
Marian’s pony; but now he saw that
something was wrong. If Magoon
had fired upon Marian Dunn and
killed her horse he would not have
gone to the cabin at the head of the
gulch, but would have put long coun-
try between himself and them.
Therefore two men, not one, must
be prowling these hills. He thought
of Coffee’s theory that there had
been a third man at Short Crick—
and was worse puzzled than before.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
was found to be so inexpensive.
Racing, with its constant call for
blooded stock, has had a strong in-
fluence on breeding in the last few
years.
It may be significant that horses
in Texas today are valued at con-
siderably more than all the millions
of cattle or sheep in this stock-
raising state.
Cattlemen are concentrating on
thoroughbred stables, breeding fine
horses for racing, polo and show pur-
poses. The mustang, a decidedly
“cheap” horse in contrast with the
spirited animal required for these
sports, may eventually suffer the
fate of the buffalo, say some stock-
men.
Light and fast on his feet,
equipped by nature to pick his way
over the rockiest hills and through
brushy tangles, the mustang was the
ideal mount in the early days o 1
the ranching industry.
Mustangs of Texas Face Last Round-Up;
Was Ideal Mount of Ranching Industry
AROUND
ih* HOUSE „
Items of Interest
to the Housewife
To Roll Corn Flakes.—Lay a
clean towel on the table and put
the corn flakes in the center. Fold
each side of the towel over the
flakes, turn both ends over to the
center and crush with a rolling
pin.
* * *
Freshening Coconut.—Shredded
coconut that becomes dry can be
freshened by soaking it in milk for
five minutes before using it in
cookies, cakes, frostings and pud-
dings.
* * *
Storing Summer Garments.—All
garments in the summer ward-
robe should be cleaned before
storing. Soil and stains allowed
to remain in such garments when
put away may cause permanent
discoloration.
* * *
To Prevent Rugs From Slipping.
—Jar rubbers securely fastened
by sewing on the under side will
prevent throw or scatter rjigs
from slipping on smooth floors.
* * *
Dumplings for Stew.—Two cups
flour, two teaspoons baking pow-
der, one-half teaspoon salt, two
cups milk. Sift the dry ingredi-
ents. Add the milk slowly and
beat until smooth. Mixture should
be just stiff enough to drop from
Four Strands of
String Make Rug
A durable scatter rug in cotton
—quick to do, inexpensive, sturdy,
colorful. It’s made of four strands
worked together forming a stout
“thread.” Made in three colors,
you can have gay rugs for Winter
—rugs that will fit the coloring of
your rooms exactly. Crochet the
medallions one at a time, some
plain, some figured, and join them
for this stunning diamond design.
In pattern 5927 you will find com-
plete instructions and charts for
making the medallions shown; an
illustration of them and of the
stitches used; material require-
ments ; a photograph of the medal-
lion; color suggestions.
To obtain this pattern, send 15
cents in stamps or coins (coins
preferred) to The Sewing Circle,
Household Arts Dept., 259 W.
Fourteenth St., New York, N. Y.
the end of a spoon. Steam for
about ten minutes, tightly cov-
ered.
HOW OFTEN
CAN YOU KiSS AND
MAKE UP?
TPEW husbands can understand
Jl why a wife should turn from a
pleasant companion into a shrew
for one whole week in every month.
You can say “I’m sorry” and
kiss and make up easier before
marriage than after. If you’re wise
and if you want to hold your hus-
band, you won’t be a three-quarter
wife.
For three generations one woman
has told another how to go “smil-
ing through” with Lydia E. Pink-
ham’s Vegetable Compound. It
helps Nature tone up the system,
thus lessening the discomforts from,
the functional disorders which
women must endure in the three
ordeals of life.: 1. Turning from
girlhood to womanhood. 2. Pre-
paring for motherhood. 3. Ap-
proaching “middle age.”
Don’t be a three-quarter wifej
take LYDIA E. PINKHAM’3
VEGETABLE COMPOUND and
Go “Smiling Through.’’
CLASSIFIED
DEPARTMENT
REAL ESTATE
I BUY AND SELL CHEAP
WEST TEXAS LAND.
C. S. LONGCOPE, MIDLAND, TEXAS
FARMS FOR SALE
Near Hot Springs, Ark., 160 acres hilly
mbered, 125 cultivated bottom. Suitable
or general farming or dude ranch. Splen-
didly watered. Good houses and barns,
Fruit and pecans. Write I. B. HUNT,
timbered, 125 cui...
for general farming
Fruit and pecans. Write I. B. HUNT,
409 GRAND RIVER, DETROIT, MICH.
Courage Within
Fortune can take away riches,
but not courage.—Seneca.
Wrapped in Moisture-proof Cellophane
StJoseph
GENUINE PURE ASPIRIN
Priceless Justice
Justice is such a fine thing that
one cannot buy it too dearly.
Give some thought
to the Laxative you take
Constipation is not to be trifled
with. When you need a laxative,
you need a good one.
Black-Draught is purely vegeta-
ble, reliable. It does not upset the
stomach but acts on„the lower bowel,
relieving constipation.
When you need a laxative take
purely vegetable
BLACK-DRAUGHT
A GOOD LAXATIVE
CHEW LONG Bill NAVY TOBACCO
r #//»'?
fi
QUAKER
STATE
MOTOR OIL
■GUARANTEED'
Retail price, 35j5 per quart
Quaker State Oil Refining
Corporation, Oil City, Pa.
WINTER
OIL...
and Superfine
Winter Greases
i
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Bryant, Russell W. The Howe Messenger (Howe, Tex.), Vol. 14, No. 47, Ed. 1 Friday, November 19, 1937, newspaper, November 19, 1937; Howe, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1015092/m1/3/: accessed July 7, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; .