Laughing Bill Hyde and Other Stories by Rex Beach (page 5)

creation; he began to live his true life for the first time since he had met the wife of Irving Francis. Clothed in the make-believe, the real Henry Phillips spoke freely, feelingly. His very voice changed in timbre, in quality; it became rich, alive; his eyes caressed the woman and stirred her to a new response.

As for Irving Francis, he watched the transformation with astonishment. Grudgingly, resentfully, he acknowledged that this was indeed fine acting. He realized, too, that his blind egotism had served merely to prove the truth of the author’s criticism and to emphasize his own shortcomings. The idea enraged him, but the spectacle held him enthralled.

Norma Berwynd was not slow to appreciate the truth. Accustomed thoroughly to every phase of the make-believe world in which she dwelt, she recognized unerringly in the new John Danton’s words and actions something entirely unreal and apart from the theatrical. The conviction that Henry Phillips was not acting came to her with a blinding suddenness, and it threw her into momentary confusion, hence her responses were mechanical. But soon, without effort on her part, this embarrassment fell away and she in turn began to blaze. The flame grew as Phillips breathed upon it. She realized wildly that her heart had always hungered for words like these, and that, coming from his lips, they carried an altogether new and wondrous meaning; that they filled some long-felt, aching want of which she had been ignorant until this moment. The certainty that it was Phillips himself who spoke, and not a mere character of his creation, filled her with an exultant recklessness. She forgot her surroundings, her husband’s presence, even the fact that the lines she spoke were not of her own making.

Never had the scene been played like this. It grew vital, it took on a tremendous significance. No one could have observed it and remained unresponsive. Francis let fall the manuscript and stared at the actors wonderingly. Since he was an actor, nothing was so real to him, nothing so thrilling, as the make-believe. He realized that this was indeed a magnificent exhibition of the artificial. With parted lips and pulse athrob he followed the wooing of that imaginary John Danton, in whom he could see no one but himself.

After a time he became conscious of a presence at his side, and heard some one breathing heavily. Turning with a start, he found Leontine Phillips at his shoulder. She, too, was aroused, but in her sneering visage was that which brought the actor abruptly out of his spell. She had emerged from the shadows noiselessly, and was leaning forward, her strong hands gripping the edge of the table littered with its many properties.

Mrs. Phillips had played emotional scenes herself, but never with such melodramatic intensity as she now unconsciously displayed. Her whole body shook as with an ague, her dark face was alive with a jealous fury which told Irving Francis the story he had been too dull to suspect. The truth, when it came home, smote him like a blow; his hatred for the author, which had been momentarily forgotten–momentarily lost in his admiration of the artist–rose up anew, and he recognized this occult spell which had held him breathless as the thrall of a vital reality, not, after all, the result of inspired acting. Instantly he saw past the make-believe, into the real, and what he saw caused him to utter a smothered cry.

Leontine turned her face to him. “You fool!” she whispered through livid lips.

Francis was a huge, leonine man; he rose now to his full height, as a cat rises. But the drama drew his gaze in spite of himself; he could not keep his eyes from his wife’s face. Leontine plucked at his sleeve and whispered again:

“You _fool_!”

Something contorted the actor’s frame bitterly, and he gasped like a man throttled. Leontine could feel his muscles stiffen.

But the two players were in Elysium. They had reached the climax of the scene; Danton had told his love as only a great, starved love can tell itself, and with swimming eyes and fluttering lids, with heart pounding beneath her folded hands, Diane swayed toward him and his arms enfolded her. Her body met his, yielded; her face was upturned; her fragrant, half-opened lips were crushed to his in a fierce, impassioned kiss of genuine ecstasy.

Up to this moment the intensity of Francis’s rage had held him paralyzed, despite the voice which was whispering so constantly at his ear; but now, when he saw his wife swooning upon the breast of the man who had played his part, he awoke.

“She knows he loves her,” Leontine was saying. “You let him tell her in front of your face. He has taken her away from you!”

Mrs. Phillips’s eyes fell upon the working fingers of the man as they rested beside her own. They were opening and closing hungrily. She also saw the naked knife which lay upon the table, and she moved it forward cautiously until the eager fingers twined about it. Then she breathed, “Go!” and shoved him forward fiercely.

It was Irving Francis’s cry of rage as he rushed upon them which aroused Norma Berwynd from her dream, from her intoxication. She saw him towering at Phillips’s back, and with a scream she tried to save the latter.

The husband’s blow fell, however; it was delivered with all the savage fury that lay in Irving Francis’s body, and his victim was fairly driven to his knees beneath it. The latter rose, then staggered, and, half sliding through the woman’s sheltering embrace, crumpled limply into a massive upholstered chair. He, too, was dazed by the sudden transition from his real world to his make-believe.

When his eyes cleared he saw Norma Berwynd struggling with her husband, interposing her own slender body in his path. Francis was cursing her foully for her unfaithfulness; his voice was thick and brutal.

“Yes! It’s true!” she cried, with hysterical defiance. “I never knew till now; but it’s true! It’s _true_!”

“You’ve killed him!” Leontine chattered, shrilly, and emerged from the shadows, her dark features ashen, her eyes ringed with white. Mrs. Francis turned from her husband and flung her arms about the recumbent man, calling wildly to him.

The denouement had come with such swiftness that it left all four of them appalled at their actions. Seeing what his brief insanity had led him into, Francis felt his strength evaporate; his face went white, his legs buckled beneath him. He scanned the place wildly in search of means of escape.

“My God! My God!” Leontine was repeating. “Why doesn’t somebody come?”

Now that his brain had cleared, and he knew what hand had smitten him, and why, Phillips was by far the calmest of the four. He saw the knife at his feet and smiled, for no steel could rob him of that gladness which was pulsing through his veins. He was still smiling when he stooped and picked up the weapon. He arose, lifting Norma to her feet; then his hand slid down and sought hers.

“You needn’t worry,” he said to Francis. “You see–this is the new dagger I got for the end of the act.”

He held it out in his open palm for all of them to see, and they noted that it was strangely shortened–that the point of the sliding blade was barely exposed beneath the hilt.

Francis wiped his wet face, then shuddered and cursed weakly with relief, meanwhile groping at the prompter’s table for support. “Sold! A prop knife!” he cried.

“You–you’re not really–” Norma swayed forward with eyes closed.

Leontine laughed.

“By God! I meant it,” the star exclaimed, uncertainly. “You can’t deny–” He gasped and tugged at his collar.

“I believe there is nothing to deny,” the author said, quietly. He looked first at his wife, then at his enemy, and then down at the quivering, white face upturned to his. “There is nothing to deny, is there?” he inquired of Norma.

“Nothing!” she said. “I–I’m glad to know the truth, that’s all.”

Francis glared first at one, then at the other, and as he did so he began to realize the full cost of his action. When it came home to him in terms of dollars and cents, he showed his true character by stammering:

“I–I made a frightful mistake. I’m–not myself; really, I’m not. It was your wife’s fault.” In a panic he ran on, unmindful of Leontine’s scorn. “She did it, Mr. Phillips. She gave me the knife. She whispered things–she made me–I–I’m very sorry–Mr. Phillips, and I’ll play the part the way you want it. I will, indeed.”

Leontine met her husband’s look defiantly; hence it was as much to her as to the cringing actor that the playwright said:

“Your salary will go on as usual, under your contract, Mr. Francis–that is, until the management supplies you with a new play; but I’m the real John Danton, and I shall play him tonight and henceforth.”

“Then, I’m–discharged? Norma–d’you hear that? We’re canceled. Fired!”

“No, Miss Berwynd’s name will go up in lights as the star, if she cares to stay,” said Phillips. “Do you wish to remain?” He looked down at the woman, and she nodded.

“Yes, oh yes!” she said. “I _must_ stay. I daren’t go back.” That hunted look leaped into her eyes again, and Phillips recognized it now as fear, the abject physical terror of the weaker animal. “I want to go–forward–not backward, if there is any way.”

“I’ll show you the way,” he told her, gently. “We’ll find it together.”

He smiled reassuringly, and with a little gasping sigh she placed her hand in his.

RUNNING ELK

Up from the valley below came the throb of war drums, the faint rattle of shots, and the distant cries of painted horsemen charging. From my vantage-point on the ridge I had an unobstructed view of the encampment, a great circle of tepees and tents three miles in circumference, cradled in a sag of the timberless hills. The sounds came softly through the still Dakota air, and my eye took in every sharp-drawn detail of the scene–ponies grazing along the creek bottom, children playing beneath the blue smoke of camp-fires, the dense crowd ringed about a medicine pole in their center, intent on a war-dance.

Five thousand Sioux were here in all their martial splendor. They were painted and decked and trapped for war, living again their days of plenty, telling anew their tales of might, and repeating on a mimic scale their greatest battles. Five days the feasting had continued; five mornings had I been awakened at dawn to see a thousand ochered, feathered horsemen come thundering down upon the camp, their horses running flat, their rifles popping, while the valley rocked to their battle-cries and to the answering clamor of the army which rode forth to meet them. Five sultry days had I spent wandering unnoticed, ungreeted, and disdained, an alien in a hostile land, tolerated but unwelcome. Five evenings had I witnessed the tents begin to glow and the campfires kindle until the valley became hooped about as if by a million giant fireflies. Five nights had I strayed, like a lost soul, through an unreal wilderness, harkening to the drone of stories told in an unfamiliar tongue, to the minor-keyed dirges of an unknown race, to the thumping of countless moccasined feet in the measures of queer dances. The odors of a savage people had begun to pall on me, and the sound of a strange language to annoy; I longed for another white man, for a word in my own tongue.

It was the annual “Give-away” celebration, when all the tribe assembles to make presents, to race, to tell stories, and to recount the legends of their prowess. They had come from all quarters of the reservation, bringing their trunks, their children, and their dogs. Of the last named more had come, by far, than would go back, for this was a week of feasting, and every day the air was heavy with the smell of singeing hair, and the curs that had been spared gnawed at an ever-increasing pile of bones.

I had seen old hags strangle dogs by pulling on opposite ends of a slip-noose, or choke them by laying a tent-pole on their throats and standing on the ends; I had seen others knock them down with billets of wood, drag them kicking to the fires, and then knock them down again when they crawled out of the flames. All in all, I had acquired much information regarding the carnival appetites of the noble red man, learning that he is poetic only in the abstract.

It was drawing on toward sunset, so I slipped into my camera strap and descended the slope. I paused, however, while still some distance away from my tent, for next to it another had been erected during my absence. It was a tiny affair with a rug in front of it, and upon the rug stood a steamer-chair.

“Hello, inside!” I shouted, then ran forward, straddling papooses and shouldering squaws out of my way.

“Hello!” came an answer, and out through the flap was thrust the head of my friend, the Government doctor.

“Gee! I’m glad to see you!” I said as I shook his hand. “I’m as lonesome as a deaf mute at a song recital.”

“I figured you would be,” said the doctor, “so I came out to see the finish of the feast and to visit with you. I brought some bread from the Agency.”

“Hoorah! White bread and white conversation! I’m hungry for both.”

“What’s the matter? Won’t the Indians talk to you?”

“I guess they would if they could, but they can’t. I haven’t found one among the whole five thousand who can understand a word I say. Your Government schools have gone back in the betting with me, Doc. You must keep your graduates under lock and key.”

“They can all speak English if they want to–that is, the younger ones. Some few of the old people are too proud to try, but the others can talk as well as we can, until they forget.”

“Do you mean to say these people have been fooling me? I don’t believe it,” said I. “There’s one that can’t talk English, and I’ll make a bet on it.” I indicated a passing brave with an eagle-feather head-dress which reached far down his naked legs. He was a magnificent animal; he was young and lithe, and as tall and straight as a sapling. “I’ve tried him twice, and he simply doesn’t understand.”

My friend called to the warrior: “Hey, Tom! Come here a minute.” The Indian came, and the doctor continued, “When do you hold the horse-races, Thomas?”

“To-morrow, at four o’clock, unless it rains,” said the fellow. He spoke in an odd, halting dialect, but his words were perfectly understandable.

“Are you going to ride?”

“No; my race-horse is sick.”

As the ocher-daubed figure vanished into the dusk the old man turned to me, saying, “College man.”

“What?”

“Yes. B.A. He’s a graduate.”

“Impossible!” I declared. “Why, he talks like a foreigner, or as if he were just learning our language.”

“Exactly. In another three years he’ll be an Indian again, through and through. Oh, the reservation is full of fellows like Tom.” The doctor heaved a sigh of genuine discouragement. “It’s a melancholy acknowledgment to make, but our work seems to count for almost nothing. It’s their blood.”

“Perhaps they forget the higher education,” said I; “but how about the Agency school, where you teach them to farm and to sew and to cook, as well as to read and to write? Surely they don’t forget that?”

“I’ve heard a graduating class read theses, sing cantatas, and deliver sounding orations; then I’ve seen those same young fellows, three months later, squatting in tepees and eating with their fingers. It’s a common thing for our ‘sweet girl graduates’ to lay off their white commencement-day dress, their high-heeled shoes and their pretty hats, for the shawl and the moccasin. We teach them to make sponge-cake and to eat with a fork, but they prefer dog-soup and a horn spoon. Of course there are exceptions, but most of them forget much faster than they learn.”

“Our Eastern ideas of Mr. Lo are somewhat out of line with the facts,” I acknowledged. “He’s sort of a hero with us. I remember several successful plays with romantic Indians in the lead.”

“I know!” My friend laughed shortly. “I saw some of them. If you like, however, I’ll tell you how it really happens. I know a story.”

When we had finished supper the doctor told me the story of Running Elk. The night was heavy with unusual odors and burdened by weird music; the whisper of a lively multitude came to us, punctuated at intervals by distant shouts or shots or laughter. On either hand the campfires stretched away like twinkling stars, converging steadily until the horns joined each other away out yonder in the darkness. It was a suitable setting for an epic tale of the Sioux.

“I’ve grown gray in this service,” the old man began, “and the longer I live the less time I waste in trying to understand the difference between the Indian race and ours. I’ve about reached the conclusion that it’s due to some subtle chemical ingredient in the blood. One race is lively and progressive, the other is sluggish and atavistic. The white man is ever developing, he’s always advancing, always expanding; the red man is marking time or walking backward. It is only a matter of time until he will vanish utterly. He’s different from the negro. The negro enlarges, up to a certain limit, then he stops. Some people claim, I believe, that his skull is sutured in such a manner as to check his brain development when his bones finally harden and set. The idea sounds reasonable; if true, there will never be a serious conflict between the blacks and the whites. But the red man differs from both. To begin with, his is not a subject race by birth. Physically he is as perfect as either; Nature has endowed him with an intellect quite as keen as the white man’s, and with an open articulation of the skull which permits the growth of his brain. Somewhere, nevertheless, she has cunningly concealed a flaw, a flaw which I have labored thirty years to find.

“I have a theory–you know all old men have theories–that it is a physical thing, as tangible as that osseous constriction of the cranium which holds the negro in subjection, and that if I could lay my finger on it I could raise the Indian to his ancient mastery and to a dignified place among the nations; I could change them from a vanishing people into a race of rulers, of lawgivers, of creators. At least that used to be my dream.

“Some years ago I felt that I was well on my way to success, for I found a youth who offered every promise of great manhood. I studied him until I knew his every trait and his every strength–he didn’t seem to have any weaknesses. I raised him according to my own ideas; he became a tall, straight fellow, handsome as a bronze statue of a god. Physically he was perfect, and he had a mind as fine as his body. He had the best blood of his nation in him, being the son of a war chief, and he was called Thomas Running Elk. I educated him at the Agency school under my own personal supervision, and on every occasion I studied him. I spent hours in shaping his mind and in bending him away from the manners and the habits of his tribe. I taught him to think like a white man. He responded like a growing vine; he became the pride of the reservation–a reserved but an eager youth, with an understanding and a wit beyond that of most white boys of his age. Search him as rigorously as I might, I couldn’t find a single flaw. I believed I was about to prove my theory.

“Running Elk romped through our school, and he couldn’t learn fast enough; when he had finished I sent him East to college, and, in order to wean him utterly away from the past, instead of sending him to an Indian school I arranged for him to enter one of the big Eastern universities, where no Indian had ever been, where constant association with the flower of our race would by its own force raise him to a higher level. Well, it worked. He led his classes as a stag leads a herd. He was a silent, dignified, shadowy figure; his fellow-students considered him unapproachable, nevertheless they admired and they liked him. In all things he excelled; but he was best, perhaps, in athletics, and for this I took the credit–a Jovian satisfaction in my work.

“News of his victories on track and field and gridiron came to me regularly, for his professors were interested in my experiment. As for the boy himself, he never wrote; it was not his nature. Nor did he communicate with his people. He had cut himself off from them, and I think he looked down upon them. At intervals his father came to the Agency to inquire about Running Elk, for I did not allow my protege to return even during vacations. That was a part of my plan. At my stories of his son’s victories the father made no comment; he merely listened quietly, then folded his blanket about him and slipped away. The old fellow was a good deal of a philosopher; he showed neither resentment nor pleasure, but once or twice I caught him smiling oddly at my enthusiasm. I know now what was in his mind.

“It was in Running Elk’s senior year that a great thing came to him, a thing I had counted upon from the start. He fell in love. A girl entered his life. But this girl didn’t enter as I had expected, and when the news reached me I was completely taken aback. She was a girl I had dandled on my knees as a child, the only daughter of an old friend. Moreover, instead of Running Elk being drawn to her, as I had planned, she fell desperately in love with him.

“I guess the gods were offended at my presumption and determined by one hair’s-breadth shift to destroy the balance of my whole structure. They’re a jealous lot, the gods. I didn’t understand, at that time, how great must have been the amusement which I offered them.

“You’ve heard of old Henry Harman? Yes, the railroad king. It was his daughter Alicia. No wonder you look incredulous.

“In order to understand the story you’ll have to know something about old Henry. You’ll have to believe in heredity. Henry is a self-made man. He came into the Middle West as a poor boy, and by force of indomitable pluck, ability, and doggedness he became a captain of industry. We were born on neighboring farms, and while I, after a lifetime of work, have won nothing except an underpaid Government job, Henry has become rich and mighty. He had that indefinable, unacquirable faculty for making money, and he became a commanding figure in the financial world. He’s dominant, he’s self-centered, he’s one-purposed; he’s a rough-hewn block of a man, and his unbounded wealth, his power, and his contact with the world have never smoothed nor rounded him. He’s just about the same now as when he was a section boss on his own railroad. His daughter Alicia is another Henry Harman, feminized. Her mother was a pampered child, born to ease and enslaved to her own whims. No desire of hers, however extravagant, ever went ungratified, and right up to the hour of her death old Henry never said no to her–partly out of a spirit of amusement, I dare say, and partly because she was the only unbridled extravagance he had ever yielded to in all his life. Well, having sowed the wind, he reaped the whirlwind in Alicia. She combined the distinguishing traits of both parents, and she grew up more effectively spoiled than her mother.

“When I got a panicky letter from one of Running Elk’s professors coupling her name vaguely with that of my Indian, I wavered in my determination to see this experiment out; but the analyst is unsentimental, and a fellow who sets out to untangle the skein of nature must pay the price, so I waited.

“That fall I was called to Washington on department business–we were fighting for a new appropriation–and while there I went to the theater one night. I was extremely harassed, and my mind was filled with Indian matters, so I went out alone to seek an evening’s relief, not caring whither my feet took me.

“The play was one of those you spoke of; it told the story of a young Indian college man in love with a white girl. Whether or not it was well written I don’t know; but it seemed as if the hand of destiny had led me to it, for the hero’s plight was so similar to the situation of Running Elk that it seemed almost uncanny, and I wondered if this play might afford me some solution of his difficulty.

“You will remember that the Indian in the play is a great football hero, and a sort of demi-god to his fellows. He begins to consider himself one of them–their equal–and he falls in love with the sister of his chum. But when this fact is made known his friends turn against him and try to show him the barrier of blood. At the finish a messenger comes bearing word that his father is dead and that he has been made chief in the old man’s place. He is told that his people need him, and although the girl offers to go with him and make her life his, he renounces her for his duty to the tribe.

“Well, it was all right up to that point, but the end didn’t help me in shaping the future of Running Elk, for his father was hale, hearty, and contented, and promised to hang on in that condition as long as we gave him his allowance of beef on Issue Day.

“That night when I got back to the hotel I found a long-distance call from old Henry Harman. He had wired me here at the Agency, and, finding I was in Washington, he had called me from New York. He didn’t tell me much over the ‘phone, except that he wanted to see me at once on a matter of importance. My work was about finished, so I took the train in the morning and went straight to his office. When I arrived I found the old fellow badly rattled. There is a certain kind of worry which comes from handling affairs of importance. Men like Henry Harman thrive upon it; but there’s another kind which searches out the joints in their coats of mail and makes women of them. That’s what Henry was suffering from.

“‘Oh, Doc, I’m in an awful hole!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re the only man who can pull me out. It’s about Alicia and that damned savage of yours.’

“‘I knew that was it,’ said I.

“‘If you’ve heard about it clear out there,’ Harman declared, with a catch in his voice, ‘it’s even worse than I thought.’ He strode up and down his office for a few moments; then he sank heavily into his chair and commenced to pound his mahogany desk, declaring, angrily:

“‘I won’t be defied by my own flesh and blood! I won’t! That’s all there is to it. I’m master of my own family. Why, the thing’s fantastic, absurd, and yet it’s terrible! Heavens! I can’t believe it!’

“‘Have you talked with Alicia?’

“‘Not with her, _to_ her. She’s like a mule. I never saw such a will in a woman. I–I’ve fought her until I’m weak. Where she got her temper I don’t know.’ He collapsed feebly and I was forced to smile, for there’s only one thing stubborn enough to overcome a Harman’s resistance, and that is a Harman’s desire.

“‘Then it isn’t a girlish whim?’ I ventured.

“‘_Whim!_ Look at me!’ He held out his trembling hands. ‘She’s licked me, Doc. She’s going to marry that–that–‘ He choked and muttered, unintelligibly: ‘I’ve reasoned, I’ve pleaded, I’ve commanded. She merely smiles and shrugs and says I’m probably right, in the abstract. Then she informs me that abstract problems go to pieces once in a while. She says this–this–Galloping Moose, this yelping ghost-dancer of yours, is the only real man she ever met.’

“‘What does he have to say?’

“‘Humph!’ grunted Harman. ‘I offered to buy him off, but he threatened to serve me up with dumplings and wear my scalp in his belt. Such insolence! Alicia wouldn’t speak to me for a week.’

“‘You made a mistake there,’ said I. ‘Running Elk is a Sioux. As for Alicia, she’s thoroughly spoiled. She’s never been denied any single thing in all her life, and she has your disposition. It’s a difficult situation.’

“‘Difficult! It’s scandalous–hideous!’

“‘How old is Alicia?’

“‘Nineteen. Oh, I’ve worn out that argument! She says she’ll wait. You know she has her own money, from her mother.’

“‘Does Running Elk come to your house?’

“At this my old friend roared so fiercely that I hastened to say: ‘I’ll see the boy at once. I have more influence with him than anybody else.’

“‘I hope you can show him how impossible, how criminal, it is to ruin my girl’s life.’ Harman said this seriously. ‘Yes, and mine, too, for that matter. Suppose the yellow newspapers got hold of this!’ He shuddered. ‘Doc, I love that girl so well that I’d kill her with my own hands rather than see her disgraced, ridiculed–‘

“‘Tut, tut!’ said I. ‘That’s pride–just plain, selfish pride.’

“‘I don’t care a damn what it is, I’d do it. I earned my way in the world, but she’s got blue blood in her and she was born to a position; she goes everywhere. When she comes out she’ll be able to marry into the best circles in America. She could marry a duke, if she wanted to. I’d buy her one if she said the word. Naturally, I can’t stand for this dirty, low-browed Injun.’

“‘He’s not dirty,’ I declared, ‘and he’s not as low-browed as some foreigner you’d be glad to pick out for her.’

“‘Well, he’s an Injun,’ retorted Harman, ‘and that’s enough. We’ve both seen ’em tried; they all drop back where they started from. You know that as well as I do.’

“‘I don’t know it,’ said I, thinking of my theories. ‘I’ve been using him to make an experiment, but–the experiment has gotten away from me. I dare say you’re right. I wanted him to meet and to know white girls, but I didn’t want him to marry one–certainly not a girl like Alicia. No, we must put a stop to this affair. I’ll see him right away.’

“‘To-morrow is Thanksgiving,’ said Henry. ‘Wait over and go up with us and see the football game.’

“‘Are you going?’

“Harman grimaced. ‘Alicia made me promise. I’d rather take her than let her go with friends–there’s no telling what she might do.’

“‘Why let her go at all?’ I objected.

“The old fellow laughed mirthlessly. ‘Why _let_ her? Running Elk plays full-back! How _stop_ her? We’ll pick you up at your hotel in the morning and drive you up in the car. It’s the big game of the year. You’ll probably enjoy it. I won’t!’

“Miss Harman seemed glad to see me on the following day. She must have known that I was in her father’s confidence, but she was too well schooled to show it. As we rode out in the big limousine I undertook to study her, but the reading of women isn’t my game. All I could see was a beautiful, spirited, imperious girl with the Harman eyes and chin. She surprised me by mentioning Running Elk of her own free will; she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed, and, although her father’s face whitened, she preserved her quiet dignity, and I realized that she was in no wise ashamed of her infatuation. I didn’t wonder that the old gentleman chose to accompany her to this game, although he must have known that the sight of Running Elk would pain him like a branding-iron.

“It was the first great gridiron battle I had ever seen, and so I was unprepared for the spectacle. The enthusiasm of that immense crowd astonished me, and in spite of the fact that I had come as a tired old man, it got into my veins until my heart pounded and my pulses leaped. The songs, the shouts, the bellows of that multitude were intensely thrilling, for youth was in them. I grew young again, and I was half ashamed of myself until I saw other people of my own age who had also become boys and girls for the day. And the seriousness of it! Why, it was painful! Not one of those countless thousands was a disinterested spectator; they were all intensely partisan, and you’d have thought life or death hung on the victory.

“Not one, did I say? There was one who held himself aloof from all the enthusiasm. Old Henry sat like a lump of granite, and out of regard for him I tried to restrain myself.

“We had a box, close to the side lines, with the _elite_ of the East on either hand–people whose names I had read. They bowed and smiled and waved to our little party, and I felt quite important.

“You’ve probably seen similar games, so there’s no need of my describing this one, even if I could. It was my first experience, however, and it impressed me greatly. When the teams appeared I recognized Running Elk at a distance. So did the hordes of madmen behind us, and I began to understand for the first time what it was that the old man in the seat next to mine was combating.

“A dancing dervish in front of the grandstand said something through a megaphone, then he waved a cane, whereupon a tremendous barking, ‘Rah! Rah! Rah!’ broke out. It ended with my Sioux boy’s name, and I wished the old chief back in Dakota were there to see his son and to witness the honor done him by the whites.

“Quite as impressive to me as this demonstration was the death-like silence which settled over that tremendous throng when the teams scattered out in readiness. The other side kicked off, and the ball sailed high and far. As it settled in its downward flight, I saw a lithe, tall shadow of a man racing toward it, and I recognized my boy. I’d lost his position for the moment, but I knew that hungry, predatory stride which devoured the yards as if he were a thing of the wind. He was off with the ball in the hollow of his arm, right back into the heart of his enemies, dodging, darting, leaping, twisting, always advancing. They tore his interference away from him, but, nevertheless, he penetrated their ranks and none of them could lay hands upon him. He was running free when tackled; his assailant launched himself with such savage violence that the sound of their impact came to us distinctly. As he fell I heard Alicia Harman gasp. Then the crowd gave tongue.

“From that time on to the finish of the game my eyes seldom left Running Elk, and then only long enough to shoot covert glances at my companions.

“Although the skill of my young Sioux overtopped that of all the other contestants, the opposing team played as one man; they were like a wonderful, well-oiled piece of machinery, and–they scored. All through the first half our side struggled to retaliate, but at the intermission they had not succeeded.

“So far Running Elk hadn’t noticed our presence, but when the teams returned for the second half he saw us. He didn’t even know that I was in the East; in fact, he hadn’t laid eyes on me for more than three years. The sight of me there in the box with Alicia and her father must have been an unpleasant shock to him; my face must have seemed an evil omen; nevertheless, he waved his hand at me and smiled–one of his rare, reserved smiles. I couldn’t help marveling at the fellow’s physical beauty.

“I had been secretly hoping that his side would be defeated, so that Miss Harman might see him for once as a loser; but the knowledge of our presence seemed to electrify him, and by the spark of his own magnetism he fired his fellows until they commenced to play like madmen; I have no doubt they were precisely that. His spirit was like some galvanic current, and he directed them with a master mind. He was a natural-born strategist, of course, for through him ran the blood of the craftiest race of all the earth, the blood of a people who have always fought against odds, to whom a forlorn hope is an assurance of victory. On this day the son of a Sioux chief led the men of that great university with the same skill that Hannibal led his Carthaginian cohorts up to the gates of Rome. He led them with the cunning of Chief Joseph, the greatest warrior of his people. He was indefatigable, irresistible, magnificent–and he himself tied the score.

“In spite of myself I joined madly in the cheering; but the boy didn’t let down. Now that his enemies recognized the source of their peril, they focused upon him all their fury. They tried to destroy him. They fell upon him like animals; they worried and they harried and they battered him until I felt sick for him and for the girl beside me, who had grown so faint and pale. But his body was of my making; I had spent careful years on it, and although they wore themselves out, they could not break Running Elk. He remained a fleeting, an elusive thing, with the vigor of a wild horse. He tackled their runners with the ferocity of a wolf.

“It was a grand exhibition of coolness and courage, for he was everywhere, always alert and always ready–and it was he who won the game.

“There came some sort of a fumble, too fast for the eye to follow, and then the ball rolled out of the scrimmage. Before we knew what had happened, Running Elk was away with it, a scattered field ahead of him.

“I dare say you have heard about that run, for it occurred in the last three minutes of play, and is famous in football annals to this day, so I’m told. It was a spectacular performance, apparently devised by fate to make more difficult the labors of old Henry and me. Every living soul on those high-banked bleachers was on his feet at the finish, a senseless, screaming demon. I saw Alicia straining forward, her face like chalk, her very lips blanched, her whole high-strung body aquiver. Her eyes were distended, and in them I saw a look which told me that this was no mere girlish whim, that this was more than the animal call of youth and sex. Running Elk had become a fetish to her.

“The father must likewise have recognized this, for as we passed out he stammered into my ear:

“‘You see, Doc, the girl’s mad. It’s awful–awful. I don’t know what to do.’

“We had become momentarily separated from her, and therefore I urged him: ‘Get her away, quick, no matter how or where. Use force if you have to, but get her out of this crowd, this atmosphere, and keep her away. I’ll see _him_ to-night.’

“The old fellow nodded. ‘I–I’ll kidnap her and take her to Europe,’ he mumbled. ‘God! It’s awful!’

“I didn’t go back to the city with the Harmans; but I told Alicia good-by at the running-board of the machine. I don’t think she heard me.

“Running Elk was glad to see me, and I spent that evening with him. He asked all about his people; he told me of his progress, and he spoke lightly of his victory that day. But sound him as I would, I could elicit no mention of Alicia Harman’s name. He wasn’t much of a talker, anyhow, so at last I was forced to bring up the subject myself. At my first word the silence of his forefathers fell upon him, and all he did was listen. I told him forcibly that any thoughts of her were ridiculous and impossible.

“‘Why?’ said he, after I had finished.

“I told him a thousand reasons why; I recounted them cruelly, unfeelingly, but he made no sign. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he understood them any more than he understood the affair itself. He appeared to be blinded, confused by the splendor of what had come to him. Alicia was so glorious, so different, so mysterious to him, that he had lost all sense of perspective and of proportion. Recognizing this, I descended to material things which I knew he could grasp.

“‘I paid for your education,’ said I, ‘and it is almost over with. In a few months you’ll be turned out to make your own living, and then you’ll encounter this race prejudice I speak of in a way to effect your stomach and your body. You’re a poor man, Running Elk, and you’ve got to earn your way. Your blood will bar you from a good many means of doing it, and when your color begins to affect your earning capacity you’ll have all you can do to take care of yourself. Life isn’t played on a gridiron, and the first thing you’ve got to do is to make a man of yourself. You’ve got no right to fill your head with dreams, with insane fancies of this sort.’

“‘Yes, sir!’ said he, and that was about all I could get out of him. His reticence was very annoying.

“I didn’t see him again, for I came West the next day, and the weeks stretched into months without word of him or of the others.

“Shortly before he was due to return I was taken sick–the one big illness of my life, which came near ending me, which made me into the creaking old ruin that I am. They sent me away to another climate, where I got worse, then they shifted me about like a bale of goods, airing me here and there. For a year and a half I hung over the edge, one ailment running into another, but finally I straightened out a bit and tottered back into Washington to resume operations.

“For six months I hung around headquarters, busied on department matters. I had lost all track of things out here, meanwhile, for the agent had been changed shortly after I left, and no one had taken the trouble to keep me posted; but eventually I showed up on the reservation again, reaching here on the first of July, three days before the annual celebration of the people.

“Many changes had occurred in my two years’ absence, and there was no one to bring me gossip, hence I heard little during the first day or two while I was picking up the loose ends of my work. One thing I did find out, however–namely, that Running Elk had come straight home from college, and was still on the reserve. I determined to look him up during the festival.

“But on the morning of the Fourth I got the surprise of my life. The stage from the railroad brought two women, two strange women, who came straight to my office–Alicia Harman and her French maid.

“Well, I was fairly knocked endwise; but Alicia was as well-poised and as self-contained as on that Thanksgiving morning in New York when she and old Henry had picked me up in their automobile–a trifle more stunning and a bit more determined, perhaps. Oh, she was a splendid creature in the first glory of her womanhood, a perfectly groomed and an utterly spoiled young goddess. She greeted me graciously, with that queenly air of all great ladies.

“‘Where is your father?’ I asked, as she laid off her dust-coat.

“‘He’s in New York,’ said she. ‘I’m traveling alone.’

“‘And where have you been all this time?’

“‘In Europe, mainly; Rome, Naples, Cairo, India, St. Petersburg, London–all about, in fact. Father took me abroad the day after Thanksgiving–you remember? And he has kept me there. But I came of age two weeks ago.’

“‘Two weeks!’ I ejaculated.

“‘Yes, I took the first ship after my birthday. I’ve been traveling pretty constantly ever since. This is a long way from the world out here, isn’t it?’ She looked around curiously.

“‘From your world, yes,’ said I, and when she offered nothing further I grew embarrassed. I started to speak; then, noting the maid, I hesitated; but Alicia shook her head faintly.

“‘Lisette doesn’t understand a word of English,’ said she.

“‘Why have you come out here, Alicia?’ I inquired. I was far more ill at ease than she.

“‘Do you need to ask?’ She eyed me defiantly. ‘I respected father’s wishes when I was in my minority. I traveled and studied and did all the tiresome things he commanded me to do–as long as he had the right to command. But when I became my own mistress I–took my full freedom. He made his life to suit himself; I intend to make mine to suit myself. I’m sorry I can’t please him, but we don’t seem to see things the same way, and I dare say he has accepted the inevitable.’

“‘Then you consider this–this move you evidently contemplate as inevitable?’

“She lifted her dainty brows. ‘Inevitable isn’t a good word. I wish a certain thing; I have wished it from the first; I have never ceased for an instant to wish it; I feel that I must have it; therefore, to all intents and purposes, it is inevtable. Anyhow, I’m going to have it.’

“‘You have–er–been in communication with–‘

“‘Never! Father forbade it.’

“‘Then how did you know he is here?’

“‘He wrote me when he left college. He said he was coming home. I’ve heard nothing since. He is here, isn’t he?’

“‘So I believe. I haven’t seen him yet; you know I’ve been away myself.’

“‘Will you take me to him?’

“‘Have you really weighed this thing?’ I remonstrated. ‘Do you realize what it means?’

“‘Please don’t.’ She smiled wearily. ‘So many people have tried to argue me out of my desires. I shall not spoil my life, believe me; it is too good a thing to ruin. That is precisely why I’m here.’

“‘If you insist.’ I gave in reluctantly. ‘Of course I’ll put myself at your service. We’ll look for him to-morrow.’ All sorts of wild expedients to thwart a meeting were scurrying through my mind.

“‘We’ll go to-day,’ said she.

“‘But–‘

“‘At once! If you’re too busy I’ll ask somebody else–‘

“‘Very well!’ said I. ‘We’ll drive out to the encampment.’ And I sent for my buckboard.

“I was delayed in spite of myself until nearly sundown, and meanwhile Alicia Harman waited in my office, pacing the floor with ill-concealed impatience. Before starting I ventured one more remonstrance, for I was filled with misgivings, and the more I saw of this girl the more fantastic and unnatural this affair seemed. But the unbridled impulses of her parents were bearing fruit, and no one could say her nay. She afforded the most illuminating study in heredity that I have ever witnessed.

“We didn’t say much during our fifteen-mile drive, for I was worried and Alicia was oddly torn between apprehension and exultation. We had left the French maid behind. I don’t know that any woman ever went to her lover under stranger circumstances or in greater perturbation of spirit than did this girl, behind whom lay a generation of selfishness and unrestraint.

“It was well along in the evening when we came over the ridge and saw the encampment below us. You can imagine the fairy picture it made with its myriad of winking fires, with the soft effulgence of a thousand glowing tents, and with the wonderful magic of the night over it all. As we drew nearer, the unusual sounds of a strange merrymaking came to us–the soft thudding of drums, the weird melody of the dances, the stir and the confusion of crowded animal life. In the daylight it would have been sufficiently picturesque, but under the wizard hand of the darkness it became ten times more so.

“When I finally tied my horses and led the girl into the heart of it I think she became a bit frightened, for these Indians were the Sioux of a bygone day. They were barbaric in dress and in demeanor.

“I guided her through the tangle of tepees, through glaring fire-lit circles and through black voids where we stumbled and had to feel our way. We were jostled and elbowed by fierce warriors and by sullen squaws. At every group I asked for Running Elk, but he was merely one of five thousand and nobody knew his whereabouts.

“The people have ever been jealous of their customs, and as a result we were frequently greeted by cold looks and sudden silences. Recognizing this open resentment, my companion let down a thick automobile veil which effectually hid her face. Her dust-coat was long and loose and served further to conceal her identity.

“At one time we came upon a sight I would gladly have spared her–the spectacle of some wrinkled hags strangling a dog by the light of a fire. The girl at my side stifled a cry at the apparition.

“‘What are they doing?’ she gasped.

“‘Preparing the feast,’ I told her.

“‘Do they–really–‘

“‘They do,’ said I. ‘Come!’ I tried to force her onward, but she would not stir until the sacrifice had been dragged to the flames, where other carcasses were singeing among the pots and kettles. From every side came the smell of cooking meat, mingled with the odor of burning hair and flesh. I could hear Miss Harman panting as we went on.

“We circled half the great hoop before we came upon the trail of our man, and were directed to a near-by tepee, upon the glowing walls of which many heads were outlined in silhouette, and from which came the monotonous voice of a story-teller.

“I don’t know what hopes the girl had been nursing; she must have looked upon these people not as kindred of Running Elk, but rather as his servants, his slaves. Realizing that her quest was nearly ended, her strength forsook her and she dropped behind me. The entrance to the tepee was congested by those who could not find space inside, but they rose silently, upon recognizing me, and made room. I lifted the flap and peered within, clearing a view for Miss Harman.

“We beheld a circle of half-naked braves in full war regalia, squatting haunch to haunch, listening to a story-teller. In front of them was a confusion of blackened pails and steaming vessels, into which they dipped with their naked fingers. Their faces were streaked with paint, their lips were greasy with traces of the dish, the air of the place was reeking from their breaths. My eyes were slower than Alicia’s, and so I did not distinguish our quarry at first, although a slow sigh at my ear and a convulsive clutch at my arm told me that he was there.

“And then I, too, saw Running Elk. It was he who was talking, to whom the others listened. What a change two years had wrought! His voice was harsh and guttural, his face, through the painted daubs and streaks, was coarser and duller than when I had seen him. His very body was more thin and shrunken.

“He finished his tale while we stared at him; the circle broke into commendatory grunts, and he smiled in childlike satisfaction at the impression he had made. He leaned forward and, scrutinizing the litter of sooty pots, plunged his hand into the nearest one.

“Miss Harman stumbled back into the crowd and her place was taken by a squaw.

“‘Running Elk,’ I called, over the heads of those next the entrance, and, seeing my face against the night, he arose and came out, stepping over the others.

“‘How do you do?’ I said. ‘You haven’t forgotten me, have you?’

“He towered head and shoulders above me, his feather head-dress adding to his stature. The beaded patterns of his war-harness stood out dimly in the half-light.

“‘No, no! I will never forget you, doctor. You–you have been sick.’ The change in his speech was even more noticeable when he turned his tongue to English. He halted over his words and he mouthed them hesitatingly.

“‘Yes, pretty sick. And you, what are you doing?’

“‘I do what the rest do,’ said he. ‘Nothing! I have some horses and a few head of cattle, that is all.’

“‘Are you satisfied?’ I demanded, sharply. He eyed me darkly for an instant, then he answered, slowly:

“‘I am an Indian. I am satisfied.’

“‘Then education didn’t do you any good, after all?’ I was offended, disappointed; I must have spoken gruffly.

“This time he paused a long while before he replied.

“‘I had dreams,’ said he, ‘many dreams, and they were splendid; but you told me that dreams were out of place in a Sioux, so I forgot them, along with all the things I had learned. It is better so.’

“Alicia Harman called me in a voice which I did not recognize, so I shook hands with Running Elk and turned away. He bowed his head and slunk back through the tepee door, back into the heart of his people, back into the past, and with him went my experiment. Since then I have never meddled with the gods nor given them cause to laugh at me.”

The doctor arose and stretched himself, then he entered his tent for a match. The melancholy pulse of the drums and the minor-keyed chant which issued out of the night sounded like a dirge sung by a dying people.

“What became of Running Elk?” I inquired.

The old man answered from within. “That was he I asked about the horse-races. He’s the man you couldn’t understand, who wouldn’t talk to you. He’s nearly an Indian again. Alicia Harman married a duke.”

THE MOON, THE MAID, AND THE WINGED SHOES

The last place I locked wheels with Mike Butters was in Idaho. I’d just sold a silver-lead prospect and was proclaimin’ my prosperity with soundin’ brass and ticklin’ symbols. I was tuned up to G and singin’ quartettes with the bartender–opery buffet, so to speak–when in Mike walked. It was a bright morning out-side and I didn’t reco’nize him at first against the sunlight.

“Where’s that cholera-morbus case?” said he.

“Stranger, them ain’t sounds of cramps,” I told him. “It’s me singin’ ‘Hell Amongst the Yearlin’s.'” Then I seen who he was and I fell among him.

When we’d abated ourselves I looked him over.

“What you doin’ in all them good clothes?” I inquired.

“I’m a D.D.S.”

“Do tell! All I ever took was the first three degrees. Gimme the grip and the password and I’ll believe you.”

“That ain’t a Masonic symbol,” said he. “I’m a dentist–a bony fido dentist, with forceps and a little furnace and a gas-bag and a waitin’-rooms”. He swelled up and bit a hang-nail off of his cigar.

“Yep! A regular toothwright.”

Naturally I was surprised, not to say awed. “Have you got much of a practice?” I made bold to ask.

“Um-m–It ain’t what it ought to be, still I can’t complain. It takes time to work into a fashionable clienteel. All I get a whack at now is Injuns, but I’m gradually beginnin’ to close in on the white teeth.”

Now this was certainly news to me, for Mike was a foot-racer, and a good one, too, and the last time I’d seen him he didn’t know nothing about teeth, except that if you ain’t careful they’ll bite your tongue. I figured he was lyin’, so I said:

“Where did you get your degree–off of a thermometer?”

“Nothing of the tall. I run it down. I did, for a God’s fact. It’s like this: three months ago I crep’ into this burg lookin’ for a match, but the professions was overcrowded, there bein’ fourteen lawyers, a half-dozen doctors, a chiropodist, and forty-three bartenders here ahead of me, not to speak of a tooth-tinker. That there dentist thought he could sprint. He come from some Eastern college and his pa had grub-staked him to a kit of tools and sent him out here to work his way into the confidences and cavities of the Idahobos.

“Well, sir, the minute I seen him I realized he was my custard. He wore sofy cushions on his shoulders, and his coat was cut in at the back. He rolled up his pants, too, and sometimes he sweetened the view in a vi’lent, striped sweater. I watered at the mouth and picked my teeth over him–he was that succ’lent.

“He’d been lookin’ down on these natives and kiddin’ ’em ever since he arrived, and once a week, reg’lar, he tried to frame a race so’s he could wear his runnin’-pants and be a hero. I had no trouble fixin’ things. He was a good little runner, and he done his best; but when I breasted the tape I won a quick-claim deed to his loose change, to a brand-new office over a drug-store, and to enough nickel-plated pliers for a wire-tapper. I staked him to a sleeper ticket, then I moved into his quarters. The tools didn’t have no directions on ’em, but I’ve figgered out how to use most of ’em.”

“I gather that this here practice that you’re buildin’ up ain’t exactly remunerative,” I said to Mike.

“Not yet it ain’t, but I’m widenin’ out. There ain’t a day passes that I don’t learn something. I was out drummin’ up a little trade when your groans convinced me that somebody in here had a jumpin’ toothache. If you ain’t busy, mebbe you can help me get a patient.”

This particular saloon had about wore out its welcome with me, so I was game for any enterprise, and I allowed a little patient-huntin’ would prob’ly do me good. I drawed my six gun and looked her over.

“It’s a new sport, but I bet I’ll take to it,” said I. “What d’you do, crease ’em or cripple ’em?”

“Pshaw! Put up that hearse ticket,” Mike told me. “Us doctors don’t take human life, we save it.”

“I thought you said you was practisin’ on Injuns.”

“Injuns is human. For a fact! I’ve learned a heap in this business. Not that I wouldn’t bust one if I needed him, but it ain’t necessary. Come, I’ll show you.”

This here town had more heathens than whites in it, and before we’d gone a block I seen a buck Injun and his squaw idlin’ along, lookin’ into the store winders. The buck was a hungry, long-legged feller, and when we neared him Mike said to me:

“Hist! There’s one. I’ll slip up and get him from behind. You grab him if he runs.”

This method of buildin’ up a dental practice struck me as some strange, but Butters was a queer guy and this was sort of a rough town. When he got abreast of Mr. Lo, Mike reached out and garnered him by the neck. The Injun pitched some, but Mike eared him down finally, and when I come up I seen that one side of the lad’s face was swelled up something fearful.

“Well, well,” said I. “You’ve sure got the dentist’s eye. You must have spied that swellin’ a block away.”

Mike nodded, then he said: “Poor feller! I’ll bet it aches horrible. My office is right handy; let’s get him in before the marshal sees us.”

We drug the savage up-stairs and into Mike’s dental stable, then we bedded him down in a chair. He protested considerable, but we got him there in a tollable state of preservation, barring the fact that he was skinned up on the corners and we had pulled a hinge off from the office door.

“It’s a shame for a person to suffer thataway,” Mike told me; “but these ignorant aborigines ain’t educated up to the mercies of science. Just put your knee in his stummick, will you? What could be finer than to alleviate pain? The very thought in itself is elevatin’. I’m in this humanity business for life–Grab his feet quick or he’ll kick out the winder.”

“Whoa!” I told the Injun. “Plenty fix-um!” I poked the swellin’ on his face and he let out a yelp.

“It’s lucky we got him before multiplication set in,” Mike assured me. “I lay for ’em that-away at the foot of the stairs every day; but this is the best patient I’ve had. I’ve a notion to charge this one.”

“Don’t you charge all of ’em?” I wanted to know.

“Nope. I got a tin watch off of one patient when he was under gas, but the most of ’em ain’t worth goin’ through. You got to do a certain amount of charity work.”

“Don’t look like much of a business to me,” I said.

“There’s something about it I like,” Mike told me. “It sort of grows on a feller. Now that you’re here to help catch ’em, I calc’late to acquire a lot of skill with these instruments. I’ve been playin’ a lone hand and I’ve had to take little ones that I could handle.”

When Mike produced a pair of nickel-plated nail-pullers, Mr. Injun snorted like a sea-lion, and it took both of us to hold him down; but finally I tied his hair around the head-rest and we had him. His mane was long and I put a hard knot in it, then I set on his moccasins while Doctor Butters pried into his innermost secrets.

“There she is–that big one.” Mike pointed out a tooth that looked like the corner monument to a quartz claim.

“You’re on the wrong side,” I told him.

“Mebbe I am. Here’s one that looks like it would come loose easier.” Mike got a half-Nelson over in the east-half-east quarter-section of the buck’s mouth and throwed his weight on the pliers.

The Injun had pretty well wore himself out by this time, and when he felt those ice-tongs he just stiffened out–an Injun’s dead game that-away; he won’t make a holler when you hurt him. His squaw was hangin’ around with her eyes poppin’ out, but we didn’t pay no attention to her.

Somehow Mike’s pinchers kept jumpin’ the track and at every slip a new wrinkle showed in the patient’s face–patient is the right word, all right–and we didn’t make no more show at loosenin’ that tusk than as if we’d tried to pull up Mount Bill Williams with a silk thread. At last two big tears come into the buck’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. First time I ever seen one cry.

Now that weakness was plumb fatal to him, for right there and then he cracked his plate with his missus. Yes, sir, he tore his shirt-waist proper. The squaw straightened up and give him a look–oh, what a look!

“Waugh!” she sniffed. “Injun heap big squaw!” And with that she swished out of the office and left him flat. Yes, sir, she just blew him on the spot.

I s’pose Mike would have got that tooth somehow–he’s a perseverin’ party–only that I happened to notice something queer and called him off.

“Here, wait a minute,” said I, and I loosened him from the man’s chest. Mike was so engorsed in the pursuit of his profession that he was astraddle of his patient’s wishbone, gougin’ away like a quartz miner. “Take your elbow out of his mouth and lemme talk to him a minute.” When the savage had got his features together, I said to him, “How you catch um bump, hey?” And I pointed to his jaw.

“Bzz-zz-zz!” said he.

I turned to Doctor Butters. “Hornet!” I declared.

When Mike had sized up the bee-sting he admitted that my diagnosis was prob’ly correct. “That’s the trouble with these patients,” he complained. “They don’t take you into their confidence. Just the same, I’m goin’ to attend to his teeth, for there’s no tellin’ when I’ll catch another one.”

“What’s wrong with his teeth?” I questioned. “They look good to me, except they’re wore down from eatin’ camus. If he was a horse I’d judge him to be about a ten-year-old.”

“You never can tell by lookin’ at teeth what’s inside of ’em. Anyhow, a nice fillin’ would set ’em off. I ain’t tried no fillin’s yet. Gimme that Burley drill.”

I wheeled out a kind of sewing-machine; then I pedaled it while Mike dug into that Injun’s hangin’ wall like he had a round of holes to shoot before quittin’-time. This here was more in my line, bein’ a hard-rock miner myself, and we certainly loaded a fine prospect of gold into that native’s bi-cuspidor. We took his front teeth because they was the easiest to get at.

It was just like I said, this Injun’s white keys was wore off short and looked like they needed something, so we laid ourselves out to supply the want. We didn’t exactly fill them teeth; we merely riveted on a sort of a plowshare–a gold sod-cutter about the size of your finger-nail. How Mike got it to stick I don’t know, but he must have picked up quite a number of dentist’s tricks before I came. Anyhow, there she hung like a brass name-plate, and she didn’t wabble hardly at all. You’d of been surprised to see what a difference it made in that redskin’s looks.

We let our patient up finally and put a lookin’-glass in his hand. At first he didn’t know just what to make of that fillin’; but when he seen it was real gold a grin broke over his face, his chest swelled up, and he walked out of the office and across the street to a novelty store. In a minute out he came with a little round lookin’-glass and a piece of buckskin, and the last we seen of him he was hikin’ down the street, grinnin’ into that mirror as happy as a child and polishin’ that tusk like it had started to rust.

“Which I sure entitle a gratifyin’ operation,” said Mike.

“I’m in no ways proud of the job,” I told him. “I feel like I’d salted a mine.”

Well, me and Mike lived in them dental parlors for a couple of weeks, decoyin’ occasional natives into it, pullin’, spilin’, fillin’, and filin’ more teeth than a few, but bimeby the sport got tame.

One day Mike was fakin’ variations on his guitar, and I was washin’ dishes, when I said: “This line is about as excitin’ as a game of jack-straws. D’you know it’s foot-racin’ time with the Injuns?”

“What?”

“Sure. They’re gettin’ together at old Port Lewis to run races this week. One tribe or the other goes broke and walks home every year. If we could meet up with the winnin’ crowd, down on the La Plata–“

I didn’t have to say no more, for I had a hackamore on Mike’s attention right there, and he quit climbin’ the “G” string and put up his box.

The next day we traded out of the tooth business and rode south down the old Navajo trail. We picked a good campin’ spot–a little “flat” in a bend of the river where the grazin’ was good–and we turned the ponies out.

We didn’t have to wait long. A few evenings later, as we et supper we heard a big noise around the bend and knew our visitors was comin’. They must of had three hundred head of horses, besides a big outfit of blankets, buckskin, baskets, and all the plunder that an Injun outfit travels with. At sight of us in their campin’-place they halted, and the squaws and the children rode up to get a look at us.

I stepped out in front of our tent and throwed my hand to my forehead, shading my eyes–that’s the Injun sign of friendship. An old chief and a couple of warriors rode forrad, Winchester to pommel, but, seein’ we was alone, they sheathed their guns, and we invited ’em to eat.

It didn’t take much urgin’. While we fed hot biscuits to the head men the squaws pitched camp.

They was plumb elated at their winnin’ up at Fort Lewis, and the gamblin’ fever was on ’em strong, so right after supper they invited us to join ’em in a game of Mexican monte. I let Mike do the card-playin’ for our side, because he’s got a pass which is the despair of many a “tin-horn.” He can take a clean Methodist-Episcopal deck, deal three hands, and have every face card so it’ll answer to its Christian name. No, he didn’t need no lookout, so I got myself into a game of “bounce the stick,” which same, as you prob’ly know, is purely a redskin recreation. You take a handful of twigs in your hand, then throw ’em on to a flat rock endways, bettin’ whether an odd or an even number will fall outside of a ring drawed in the dirt. After a couple of hours Mike strolled up and tipped me the wink that he’d dusted his victims.

“Say,” he began, “there’s the niftiest chicken down here that I ever see.”

“Don’t start any didos with the domestic relations of this tribe,” I told him, “or they’ll spread us out, and spread us thin. Remember, you’re here on business bent, and if you bend back and forrads, from business to pleasure, and versy visa, you’ll bust. These people has scrooplous ideas regardin’ their wives and I respect ’em.”

“She ain’t married,” Mike told me. “She’s the chief’s daughter, and she looks better to me than a silver mine.”

Durin’ that evening we give the impression that we was well heeled, so the tribe wasn’t in no hurry to break camp on the following morning.

Along about noon I missed Mike, and I took a stroll to look for him. I found him–and the chief’s daughter–alongside of a shady trout pool. She was weavin’ a horsehair bracelet onto his wrist, and I seen the flash of his ring on her finger. Mike could travel some.

He was a bit flustered, it seemed to me, and he tried to laugh the matter off, but the girl didn’t. There was something about the look of her that I didn’t like. I’ve seen a whole lot of trouble come from less than a horsehair bracelet. This here quail was mebbe seventeen; she was slim and shy, and she had big black eyes and a skin like velvet. I spoke to Mike in words of one syllable, and I drug him away with me to our tent.

That afternoon some half-grown boys got to runnin’ foot-races and Mike entered. He let ’em beat him, then he offered to bet a pony that they couldn’t do it again. The kids was game, and they took him quick. Mike faked the race, of course, and lost his horse, that bein’ part of our progam.

When it was all over I seen the chief’s daughter had been watchin’ us, but she didn’t say nuthin’. The next mornin’, however, when we got up we found a bully pinto pony tied to one of our tent stakes.

“Look who’s here,” said I. “Young Minnie Ha-ha has made good your losin’s.”

“That pony is worth forty dollars,” said Mike.

“Sure. And you’re as good as a squaw-man this minute. You’re betrothed.”

“Am I?” The idy didn’t seem to faze Mike. “If that’s the case,” said he, “I reckon I’ll play the string out. I sort of like it as far as I’ve gone.”

“I wish she’d gave us that cream-colored mare or hers,” I said. “It’s worth two of this one.”

“I’ll get it to-day,” Mike declared. And sure enough, he lost another foot-race, and the next morning the cream-colored mare was picketed in front of our tent.

Well, this didn’t look good to me, and I told Mike so. I never was much of a hand to take money from women, so I served a warnin’ on him that if we didn’t get down to business pretty quick and make our clean-up I proposed to leave him flat on his back.

That day the young men of the tribe did a little foot-runnin’, and Mike begged ’em to let him in. It was comical to see how pleased they was. They felt so sure of him that they began pro-ratin’ our belongin’s among one another. They laid out a half-mile course, and everybody in camp went out to the finish-line to see the contest and to bet on it. The old chief acted as judge, bookmaker, clerk of the course, referee, and stakeholder. I s’pose by the time the race was ready to start there must of been fifty ponies up, besides a lot of money, but the old bird kept every wager in his head. He rolled up a couple of blankets and placed ’em on opposite sides of the track, and showed us by motions that the first man between ’em would be declared the winner. All the money that had been bet he put in little piles on a blanket; then he give the word to get ready.

I had no trouble layin’ our money at one to five, and our ponies at the same odds; then, when everything was geared up, I called Mike from his tent. Say, when he opened the fly and stepped out there was a commotion, for all he had on was his runnin’-trunks and his spiked shoes. The Injuns was in breech-cloths and moccasins, and, of course, they created no comment; but the sight of a half-nekked white man was something new to these people, and the first flash they got at Mike’s fancy togs told ’em they’d once more fell a victim to the white man’s wiles.

They was wise in a minute, and some of the young hot-bloods was for smokin’ us up, but the chief was a sport–I got to give the old bird credit. He rared back on his hind legs and made a stormy palaver; as near as I could judge he told his ghost-dancers they’d been cold-decked, but he expected ’em to take their medicine and grin, and, anyhow, it was a lesson to ’em. Next time they’d know better’n to monkey with strangers. Whatever it was he said, he made his point, and after a right smart lot of powwowin’ the entertainment proceeded. But Mike and me was as popular with them people as a couple of polecats at a picnic.

Mike certainly made a picture when he lined up at the start; he stood out like a marble statue in a slate quarry. I caught a glimpse of the chief’s daughter, and her eyes was bigger than ever, and she had her hands clinched at her side. He must have looked like a god to her; but, for that matter, he was a sight to turn any untamed female heart, whether the owner et Belgian hare off of silver service or boiled jack-rabbit out of a coal-oil can. Women are funny thataway.

It’s a pot-hunter’s maxim never to win by a big margin, but to nose out his man at the finish. This Mike did, winnin’ by a yard; then he acted as if he was all in–faked a faint, and I doused him with a sombrero of water from the creek. It was a spectacular race, at that, for at the finish the runners was bunched till a blanket would of covered ’em. When they tore into the finish I seen the chief’s girl do a trick. Mike was runnin’ on the outside, and when nobody was watchin’ her the little squaw kicked one of them blanket bundles about two feet down the course, givin’ Mike that much the “edge.” She done it clever and it would have throwed a close race.

Them savages swallered their physic and grinned, like the chief had told ’em, and they took it standin’ up. They turned over the flower of their pony herd to us, not to mention about six quarts of silver money and enough blankets to fill our tent. The old chief patted Mike on the back, then put both hands to his temples with his fingers spread out, as much as to say, “He runs like a deer.”

Bimeby a buck stepped up and begun makin’ signs. He pointed to the sun four times, and we gathered that he wanted us to wait four days until he could go and get another man.

Mike tipped me the wink, sayin’: “They’re goin’ after the champeen of the tribe. That phony faint of mine done it. Will we wait? Why, say, we’d wait four years, wouldn’t we? Sweet pickin’s, I call it. Champeen, huh?”

“For me, I’d wait here till I was old folks,” I said. “I don’t aim to leave these simple savages nothin’. Nothin’ at all, but a lot of idle regrets.”

Well, sir, there was a heap of excitement in that camp for the next three days. All them Injuns done, was to come and look at Mike and feel of his legs and argue with one another. The first night after the race Mike tuned up his guitar, and later on I heard snatches of the “Spanish Fandango” stealin’ up from the river bank. I knew what was on; I knew without lookin’ that the old chief’s girl was right there beside him, huggin’ her knees and listenin’ with both ears. I didn’t like to think about it, for she was a nice little yearlin’, and it looked to me like Mike was up to his usual devilment. Seemed like a low-down trick to play on an injunoo like her, and the more I studied it the warmer I got. It was a wonderful night; the moonlight drenched the valley, and there was the smell of camp-fires and horses over everything–just the sort of a night for a guitar, just the sort of a night to make your blood run hot and to draw you out into the glitter and make you race with your shadow.

When Mike moseyed in, along about ten o’clock, he was plumb loco; the moon-madness was on him strong. His eyes was as bright as silver coins, and his voice had a queer ring to it.

“What a night!” said he. “And what a life this is Lord! I’m tired of pot-huntin’. I’ve trimmed suckers till I’m weary; I’ve toted a gold brick in my pocket till my clothes bag. I’m sick of it. I’m goin’ to beat this Injun champeen, take my half of our winnin’s, sell off the runty ones, and settle down.”

“Where do you aim to settle?” I inquired.

“Oh, anywhere hereabouts. These are good people, and I like ’em.”

“You mean you’re goin’ to turn out with the Injuns?” I inquired, with my mouth open. Mike had led so sudden that he had me over the ropes.

“I’m goin’ to do that very little thing,” he declared. “I dunno how to talk much Navajo, but I’m learnin’ fast, and she got my meanin’. We understand each other, and we’ll do better as time goes on. She calls me ‘Emmike’! Sweet, ain’t it?” He heaved a sigh, then he gargled a laugh that sounded like boilin’ mush. “It ain’t often a feller like me gets a swell little dame that worships him. Horses, guns, camp-fires! Can you beat it?”

“If that squaw had a soft palate or a nose like a eeclair, you wouldn’t be so keen for this simple life,” I told him. “She has stirred up your wickedness, Mike, and you’ve gone nutty. You’re moon-crazy, that’s all. You cut it out.”

I argued half the night; but the more I talked the more I seen that Mike was stuck to be a renegade. It’s a fact. If he hadn’t of been a nice kid I’d of cut his hobbles and let him go; but–pshaw! Mike Butters could run too fast to be wasted among savages, and, besides, it’s a terrible thing for a white man to marry an Injun. The red never dies out in the woman, but the white in the man always changes into a dirty, muddy red. I laid awake a long while tryin’ to figger out a way to block his game, but the only thing I could think of was to tie him up and wear out a cinch on him. Just as I was dozin’ off I had an idy. I didn’t like it much at first; I had to swaller hard to down it, but the more I studied it the better it looked, so for fear I’d weaken I rolled over and went to sleep.

Mike was in earnest, and so was the girl; that much I found out the next day. And she must of learned him enough Navajo to propose marriage with, and he must of learned her enough English to say “yes,” for she took possession of our camp and begun to order me around. First thing she lugged our Navajo blankets to the creek, washed ’em, then spread ’em over some bushes and beat ’em with a stick until they were as clean and soft as thistle-down. I’ll admit she made a pleasant picture against the bright colors of them blankets, and I couldn’t altogether blame Mike for losin’ his head. He’d lost it, all right. Every time she looked at him out of them big black eyes he got as wabbly as clabber. It was plumb disgustin’.

That evenin’ he give her a guitar lesson. Now Mike himself was a sad musician, and the sound of him fandangoin’ uncertainly up and down the fretful spine of that instrument was a tribulation I’d put up with on account of friendship, pure and simple, but when that discord-lovin’ lady cliff-dweller set all evenin’ in our tent and scraped snake-dances out of them catguts with a fish-bone, I pulled my freight and laid out in the moonlight with the dogs.

Mike’s infatuation served one purpose, though; he spent so much time with the squab that it give me an opportunity to work out my scheme. That guitar lesson showed me that vig’rous measures was necessary, so I dug up a file, a shoemaker’s needle and some waxed thread, all of which we had in our kit.

On the fourth morning there was a stir in the camp, and we knew that the courier had got back with his runner. Pretty soon the whole village stormed up to our tent in a body.

“Let’s go out and look him over,” I said.

“What’s the use of lookin’ at him?” Mike inquired. “All Injuns look alike–except one.”

I pulled back the tent fly and stepped out; then I called to Mike, for the first thing I seen was that gold fillin’ of ours. Yes, sir, right there, starin’ me in the eye, was the sole and shinin’ monument to me and Mike’s brief whirl at the science of dentistry. The face surroundin’ it was stretched wide and welcome, and the minute this here new-comer reco’nized me, he drawed back his upper lip and pointed proudly to his ornament, then he dug up his lookin’-glass and his polishin’-rag and begun to dust it off. It was plain to be seen that he thought more of it than his right eye. And it impressed the other Injuns, too; they crowded up and studied it. They took turns feelin’ of it, especially the squaws, and I bet if we’d had our dentist outfit with us we could of got rich right there. The chief’s daughter, in particular, was took with the beauties of that gew-gaw, and she made signs to us that she wanted one just like it.

“I never noticed he was so rangy,” Mike told me, when he’d sized up the new arrival. “Say, this guy looks good. He’s split plumb to the larynx and I bet he can run, for all of that wind-shield.”

I noticed that Mike was pretty grave when he come back in the tent, and more than once that day I caught him lookin’ at the champeen, sort of studyin’ him out. But for that matter this new party was gettin’ his full share of attention; everywhere he went there was a trail of kids at his heels, and every time he opened his mouth he made a hit with the grown folks. The women just couldn’t keep their eyes offen him, and I seen that Mike was gettin’ pretty sore.

In the evenin’ he made a confession that tipped off the way his mind was workin’. “This is the first time I ever felt nervous before a race,” said he. “Mebbe it’s because it’s goin’ to be my last race; mebbe it’s because that Injun knows me and ain’t scared of me. Anyhow, I’m scared of _him_. That open-faced, Elgin-movement buck has got me tickin’ fast.”

“That ain’t what’s got your goat,” I told him.

“Your cooin’ dove is dazzled by that show of wealth, and you know it.”

“Hell! She’s just curious, that’s all. She’s just a kid. I–I wish I’d of known who he was when I treated him. I’d of drove a horse-shoe nail in his knee.”

But all the same Mike looked worried.

It rained hard that night, and the next morning the grass was pretty wet. Mike tried it, first thing, and come back grinnin’ till the top of his head was an island.

“That sod is so slippery old Flyin’ Cloud can’t get a good stride in his moccasins. Me, I can straddle out and take holt with my spikes. Them spikes is goin’ to put us on easy street. You see! I don’t care how good he is, they’re goin’ to give me four hundred head of broncs and a cute little pigeon to look out for ’em. Me, I’m goin’ to lay back and learn to play the guitar. I’m goin’ to learn it by note.”

“You sure got the makin’s of a squaw-man,” I told him. “Seems like I’ve over-read your hand. I used to think you had somethin’ in you besides a appetite, but I was wrong. You’re plumb cultus, Mike.”

“Don’t get sore,” he grinned. “I got my chance to beat the game and I’m goin’ to take it. I can’t run foot-races, and win ’em, all my life. Some day I’ll step in my beard and sprain my ankle. Ambition’s a funny thing. I got the ambition to quit work. Besides, she–you know–she’s got a dimple you could lay your finger in. You’d ought to hear her say ‘Emmike’; it’s certainly cute.”

We bet everything we had–everything except that pinto pony and the cream-colored mare. I held them two out, for I figgered we was goin’ to need ’em and need ’em bad, if my scheme worked out.

The course–it was a quarter-mile, straight-away–was laid out along the bottom-land where the grass was thick and short. Me and the chief and his girl set on a blanket among the little piles of silver, and the rest of the merry villagers lined up close to the finish-line. We white men had been the prime attraction up till now, but it didn’t take me long to see that we wasn’t any more. Them people was all wrapped up in the lad with the gold name-plate, and they was rootin’ for him frantic. Last thing he done was to give his eighteen-carat squaw-catcher the once-over with his buckskin buffer, then he shined it at the chief’s girl and trotted down to the startin’-line. I noticed that she glued her big-and-liquids on him and kept ’em there.

It was beautiful to watch those two men jockey for a start; the Injun was lean and hungry and mighty smart–but Mike was smarter still. Of course he got the jump.

It was a pretty start, and Mike held his lead for fifty yards or more. I’ll admit I was worked up. I’ve had my heart in my mouth so often over his races that it’s wore smooth from swallerin’, but this time it just wouldn’t go down. Our dental patient was runnin’ an awful race, but it looked like Mike had him; then, just as the boy settled down and reached out into that long, strong stride of his’n, something happened. He slipped. He would have fell, except that he caught himself. The next second he slipped again, and Mr. “Man in Love with a Gold Fillin'” passed him.

With that them Injuns begun to speak. Some of their yells brought hunks of throat with ’em, and that whole region begun to echo as far south as the Rio Bravo.

My scheme had worked, all right. You see, when Mike was doin’ his heavy courtin’ I’d planted my ace in the hole; I’d took off the outer soles of his runnin’-shoes and filed the spikes almost in two, close up to the plate. When I sewed the leather back on, it never showed, but the minute he struck his gait they broke with him and he begin to miss his pull. He might have won at that, for he’s got the heart of a lion, but I s’pose the surprise did as much as anything else to beat him. It made my heart bleed to see the fight he put up, but he finished six feet to the bad and fell across the mark on his face, sobbin’ like a child. It’s the game ones that cry when they’re licked; analyze a smilin’ loser and you’ll find the yellow streak. I lifted him to his feet, but he was shakin’ like a bush in the wind.

“Them shoes!” he wailed. “Them damned shoes!” Then he busted out again and blubbered like a kid.

Right then I done some actin’; but, pshaw! anybody can act when he has to. If I’d of overplayed my hand a nickel’s worth he’d of clumb up me like a rat up a rafter and there would of been human reminders all over that neighborhood. Not but what I would have got him eventually, bein’ as I had my side-arms, but I liked Mike and I wouldn’t kill nobody if I was sober.

It happened that he fell right at the feet of the chief’s girl, and when I lifted him up he seen her. But, say, it must have been a shock to him. Her eyes was half shut, her head was throwed back, and she was hissin’ like a rattlesnake. Mike stiffened and sort of pawed at her, but she drawed away just like that other squaw in our dentist office had drawed away from her liege lord and master.

“Waugh! White man heap squaw!” said she, and with that she flirted her braids and turned to the winner of the race. She went up to him and lifted his lip with her thumb like she just had to have another look at his gold tooth, then she smiled up into his face and they walked away together without a glance in our direction.

Mike follered a step or two, then he stopped and stared around at the crowd. It was a big minute for him, and for me, too, and I’ll prob’ly never forget the picture of that pantin’ boy at bay among them grinnin’ barbarians. The curs was yappin’ at his heels, the squaws was gigglin’ and makin’ faces, the bucks was showin’ their teeth and pointin’ at his tears.

Mike never said a word. He just stooped down and peeled off his runnin’-shoes, then he throwed ’em as far as he could, right out into the river. “Who the hell would marry a dame like that?” he sobbed. “She’s stuck on his jewelry.”

“Come on, lad,” said I; and I led him to our tent. Then, while he put on his clothes, I saddled the pinto pony and the cream-colored mare, for it was six days to the railroad.

FLESH

I

Should you chance, in crossing a certain mountain pass in southern Catalonia, to find yourself poised above a little valley against the opposite side of which lies a monastery, look to the heights above it. Should you piece out from among the rocks the jagged ruins of a castle, ask its name. Your guide will perhaps inform you that those blackened stones are called “The Teeth of the Moor,” and if he knows the story he will doubtless tell it to you, crossing himself many times during the recital. In all probability, however, he will merely shrug his shoulders and say it is a place of bad repute, nothing more.

Even the monks of the monastery, who are considered well versed in local history, have forgotten the reason for the name, although they recall the legend that once upon a time the castle harbored a haughty Moslem lord. Few of them ever heard the story of Joseph the Anchorite, and how he sought flesh within its portals; those who have will not repeat it. Time was, however, when the tale was fresh, and it runs this wise:

Away back in the reign of Abderamus the Just, First Caliph of the West, Hafiz, a certain warlike Moor, amazed at the fertility of this region, established on the edge of the plateau a stronghold of surprising security. His house he perched upon the crest of the cliff overlooking the valley below. It was backed by verdant, sun-kissed slopes which quickly yielded tribute in such quantity as to render him rich and powerful. Hafiz lived and fought and died beneath the Crescent banner, leaving in his place a son, who likewise waged war to the northward on behalf of the Prophet and all True Believers, at the same time farming his rich Catalonian acres.

Generations came and went, and, although the descendants of Hafiz waxed strong, so also did the power of the hated Christians. Living as they did upon the very fringe of the Mussulman empire, the Moors beheld with consternation the slow encroachment of the Unbelievers–more noticeable here than farther to the southward. At intervals these enemies were driven back, but invariably they reappeared, until at length, upon the plain beneath the castle, monks came and built a monastery which they called San Sebastian. Beneath the very eyes of Abul Malek, fourth descendant of Hafiz, they raised their impious walls; although he chafed to wreak a bloody vengeance for this outrage, his hands were tied by force of circumstance. Wearied with interminable wars, the Moorish nation had sought respite; peace dozed upon the land. Men rested and took from the earth new strength with which to resume the never-ending struggle between the Crescent and the Cross, wherefore Abul Malek’s rage availed him nothing. From his embrasured windows he beheld the cassocked enemies of his creed passing to and fro about their business; he heard his sacred hour of prayer desecrated by their Christian bells, and could do no more than revile them for dogs, the while he awaited the will of Allah. It was scant comfort for a man of his violent temper.

But the truce threatened never to be broken. Years passed and still peace continued to reign. Meanwhile the Moor fed upon his wrongs and, from incessant brooding over them, became possessed of a fury more fanatical, more poisonous even than had been engendered by his many battles.

Finally, when the wrong had bit too deep for him to endure, he summoned all his followers, and selecting from their number one hundred of the finest horsemen, he bade them make ready for a journey to Cordova; then in their presence he kissed the blue blade of his scimitar and vowed that the shackles which had hampered him and them would be struck off.

For many days there ensued the bustle and the confusion of a great preparation in the house of the Moor; men came and went, women sewed and cleaned and burnished; horses were groomed, their manes were combed and their hoofs were polished; and then one morning, ere the golden sun was an hour high, down the winding trail past the monastery of San Sebastian, came a brilliant cavalcade. Abul Malek led, seated upon an Arabian steed whiter than the clouds which lay piled above the westward mountains. His two sons, Hassam and Elzemah, followed astride horses as black as night–horses the distinguished pedigrees of which were cited in the books of Ibn Zaid. Back of them came one hundred swarthy warriors on other coal-black mounts, whose flashing sides flung back the morning rays. Their flowing linen robes were like the snow, and from their turbans gleamed gems of value. Each horseman bore at his girdle a purse, a kerchief, and a poinard; and in their purses lay two thousand dinars of gold. Slaves brought up the rear of the procession, riding asses laden with bales, and they led fifty blood-red bays caparisoned as for a tournament.

With scowling glances at the monastery the band rode on across the valley, climbed to the pass, and disappeared. After many days they arrived at Cordova, then when they had rested and cleansed themselves, Abul Malek craved audience of the Caliph, Aboul-Abbas El Hakkam. Being of distinguished reputation, his wish was quickly granted; and on the following day in the presence of the Hadjeb, the viziers, the white and black eunuchs, the archers, and the cuirassiers of the guard, he made a gift to his sovereign of those hundred northern horsemen and their mounts, those fifty blooded bays and their housings, those bales of aloe-wood and camphor, those silken pieces and those two thousand dinars of yellow Catalonian gold. This done, he humbly craved a favor in return, and when bade to speak, he began by telling of the indignities rendered him by the monks of San Sebastian.

“Five generations my people have dwelt upon our lands, serving the true God and His Prophet,” he declared, with quivering indignation; “but now those idolaters have come. They gibe and they mock at me beneath my very window. My prayers are broken by their yammerings; they defile my casement, and the stench of their presence assails my nostrils.”

“What do you ask of me?” inquired the Caliph.

“I ask for leave to cleanse my doorstep.”

The illustrious Moslem shook his head, whereat Abul Malek cried:

“Does not the Koran direct us to destroy the unbelieving and the impious? Must I then suffer these infidels to befoul my garden?”

“God is merciful; it is His will that for a time the Unbelievers shall appear to flourish,” said the Caliph. “We are bound by solemn compact with the kings of Leon and Castile to observe an armistice. That armistice we shall observe, for our land is weary of wars, our men are tired, and their scars must heal. It is not for you or for me to say: ‘This is good, or this is evil.’ Allah’s will be done!”

Abul Malek and his sons returned alone to their mountains, but when they reined in at the door of their castle the father spat venomously at the belfried roof of the monastery beneath and vowed that he would yet work his will upon it.

Now that the Law forbade him to make way with his enemies by force, he canvassed his brain for other means of effecting their downfall; but every day the monks went on with their peaceful tasks, unmindful of his hatred, and their impious religion spread about the countryside. Abul Malek’s venom passed them by; they gazed upon him with gentle eyes in which there was no spleen, although in him they recognized a bitter foe.

As time wore on his hatred of their religion became centered upon the monks themselves, and he undertook by crafty means to annoy them. Men said these Christian priests were good; that their lives were spent in prayer, in meditation, and in works of charity among the poor; tales came to the Moor of their spiritual existence, of their fleshly renunciation; but at these he scoffed. He refused to credit them.

“Pah!” he would cry, tugging at his midnight beard; “how can these men be aught but liars, when they live and preach a falsehood? Their creed is impious, and they are hypocrites. They are not superior beings, they are flesh like you or me. They have our passions and our faults, but a thousand times multiplied, for they walk in darkness and dwell in hypocrisy. Beneath their cassocks is black infamy; their hearts are full of evil–aye, of lust and of every unclean thing. Being false to the true God, they are false to themselves and to the religion they profess; and I will prove it.” Thus ran his reasoning.

In order to make good his boast Abul Malek began to study the monks carefully, one after another. He tried temptation. A certain gross-bellied fellow he plied with wine. He flattered and fawned upon the simple friar; he led him into his cellars, striving to poison the good man’s body as well as his mind; but the visitor partook in moderation, and preached the gospel of Christ so earnestly that the Saracen fled from his presence, bathing himself in clean water to be rid of the pollution.

Next he laid a trap for the Abbot himself. He selected the fairest of his slaves, a well-rounded woman of great physical charm, and bribed her with a girdle of sequins. She sought out the Abbot and professed a hunger for his creed. Bound thus by secrecy to the pious man, she lured him by every means at her command. But the Abbot had room for no passion save the love of Christ, and her wiles were powerless against this armor.

Abul Malek was patient; he renewed his vow to hold the false religion up to ridicule and laughter, thinking, by encompassing the downfall of a single advocate, thus to prove his contention and checkmate its ever-widening influence. He became obsessed by this idea; he schemed and he contrived; he used to the utmost the powers of his Oriental mind. From his vantage-point above the cloister he heard the monks droning at their Latin; his somber glances followed them at their daily tasks. Like a spider he spun his web, and when one victim broke through it he craftily repaired its fabric, luring another into its meshes.

At times he shared his vigil with his daughter Zahra, a girl of twelve, fast growing into womanhood; and since she had inherited his wit and temperament, he taught her to share his hatred of the black-robed men.

This Moorish maiden possessed the beauty of her mother, who had died in childbirth; and in honor of that celebrated favorite of Abderamus III. she had been christened “Flower of the World.” Nor was the title too immoderate, as all men who saw her vowed. Already the hot sun of Catalonia had ripened her charms, and neighboring lords were beginning to make extravagant overtures of marriage. But seeing in her a possible weapon more powerful than any he had yet launched against the monks of San Sebastian, the father refused to consider even the best of them. He continued to keep her at his side, pouring his hatred into her ears until she, too, was ablaze with it.

Zahra was in her fourteenth year when Abul Malek beheld, one day, a new figure among those in the courtyard of the monastery below. Even from his eminence the Saracen could see that this late-comer was a giant man, for the fellow towered head and shoulders above his brethren. Inquiry taught him that the monk’s name was Joseph. Nor was their meeting long delayed, for a sickness fell among the people of the valley, and Abul Malek, being skilled in medicine, went out to minister among the poor, according to his religion. At the sick-bed of a shepherd the two men came face to face.

Joseph was not young, nor was he old, but rather he had arrived at the perfect flower of his manhood, and his placid soul shone out through features of unusual strength and sweetness. In him the crafty Moor beheld a difference which for a time was puzzling. But eventually he analyzed it. The other monks had once been worldly men–they showed it in their faces; the countenance of Fray Joseph, on the contrary, was that of a boy, and it was without track of temptation or trace of evil. He had lived a sheltered life from his earliest youth, so it transpired, and Abul Malek rejoiced in the discovery, it being his belief that all men are flesh and that within them smolder flames which some day must have mastery. If this monk had never let his youth run free, if he had never met temptation and conquered it, those pent-up forces which inhabit all of us must be gathering power, year by year, and once the joint of this armor had been found, once it could be pierced, he would become earthly like other men, and his false religion would drop away, leaving him naked under the irksome garb of priesthood.

Accordingly, the Moor tested Fray Joseph, as he had tested the Abbot and the others, but to no avail, and he was in despair, until one day the secret of his failure was unexpectedly revealed.

Being busied with his accounts, he had repaired to the shade of a pomegranate grove near the cliff, the better to escape the heat; while so engaged up the path from the monastery came the good brother. Just abreast of Abul Malek’s point of vantage Joseph paused to listen. A songbird was trilling wondrously and the monk’s face, raised toward the pomegranate trees, became transfigured. He changed as if by magic; his lips parted in a tender smile, his figure grew tense with listening; not until the last note had died away did he move. Then a great breath stirred his lungs, and with shining eyes and rapt countenance he went on into the fields.

Abul Malek rose, his white teeth gleaming through his beard.

“Allah be praised!” he exclaimed. “It is music!” And rolling up his papers, he went into the house.

Early on the following morning another cavalcade filed down past the monastery of San Sebastian; but this procession was in great contrast to the one that had gone by five years before. Instead of gaily caparisoned warriors, it was composed mainly of women and slaves, with a mere handful of guards to lead the way. There were bondmaidens and seamstresses, an ancient nurse and a tutor of languages; while astride of a palfrey at her father’s side rode the youthful lady of the castle. Her veil was wet upon her cheeks, her eyes were filled with shadows; yet she rode proudly, like a princess.

Once more the train moved past the sun-baked walls of the monastery, across the plain to the mountain road that led to the land of bounty and of culture. Late that afternoon Brother Joseph learned from the lips of a herdsman that the beauteous Zahra, flower of all the Moorish race, had gone to Cordova to study music.

II

Abul Malek once more rode home alone to his castle; but this time as he dismounted at his door he smiled at the monastery below.

Four years crept by, during which the Saracen lord brooded over the