HEPPNER GAZETTE TIMES, HEPPNER, OREGON, THURSDAY, SEPT. 1, 1927.
PAGE THREE
SW&MP
Michael J. Phillips
Illustration by Htnry Jajr Lea
Copyright Michael V. PhiUijx '
lUleajed thru Pufallshari AutoouUr Ssrvto
The Leading Characters.
EDISON FORBES, a young resi
dent of Scottdule with an inherent
raving for liquor is held for the
death of a woman who haa been kill
ed by a bootlegging truck. Circum
stantial evidence points to Forbes and
rather than tell the truth of the epi
sode, he sands trial, which results in
a long prison sentence. He is soon
pardoned, however, but back in Scott-
dale he and
PATSY JANE, his trusting wife
agree that public . sentiment against
him is too strong so they migrate up
north to some land that has been in
the family for years. While here they
form the acquaintance of
ISAIAH SEALMAN, a shifty neigh
bor who is anxious to buy their land.
Eddie learns that the buck taxes
amount to over eight hundred dollars
but as he has five months to pay he
decides to refuse Sealman's offer of
$1200 and try and get final title to his
property Sealman's offer having led
him to think it very valuable. But
things do not go well. -Eddie drinks
heavily from some bootlegger's po
tions, is forgiven by Patsy, but soon
after falls in with the same gang, gets
drunk, and wakes up in a freight car
in Chicago many miles away. Strick
en with remorse he returns to his
cabin but finds his wife has left and
in her place a ruffian, who orders him
out. A fight ensues in which Eddie
finally knocks his opponent stone
cold.
After ejecting the intruder, find
ing that he seems to be in league
with Sealman, Eddie goes to Long
Portage and sees Patsy, who is work
ing for Kinnane, a lawyer. She an
nounces that she will not join him
until he definitely quits drinking.
Determining to comply, he finds a
job with Davenant, a rancher, and
for several weeks abstains from the
bottle that cheers. But one Sunday,
Eddie walks on the lake trail, and
encounters a series of truck smug
glers. Among them he recognizes his
"friends" who shanghaied him to Chi
cago notwithstanding, Forbes hails
them in greeting.
CHAPTER XV
Demon Rum Again
Cullcy and Jnke, confused, took' his
proffered hand with mumbled greet
ings. The third man was introduced
as Oscar. "Say," Eddie went on, Mb
smile taking a tinge of humorous
ruefulness, "there was an awful kick
in that last bottle. Do you know
where I was when I came out of it
with a head like a haystacker?"
The driver and Culley exchanged
glances. "No, where?" asked the
guard.
"Coming into Chicago in a freight
car."
"You don't say," ejaculated the
driver.
"Surest thing you know. Where'd
you leave me?"
Again the exchange of puzzled
looks. "Long Portage," returned
Jake.
"Well," went on Eddie, easily. "I
don't remember a thing after that
third drink, although it Beems to me
I had a dream about a boxcar. I must
have wandered to the yards and laid
down in the car to sleep it off. They
didn't see me and locked the door.
Boy. That booze had a kick."
' He had convinced them, and there
was a decided increase of cordiality
in their manner. Oscar and Jake Smil
ed sympathetically. "I know," explain
ed Jake, "it wasn't very good stuff.
We were all sick next day. You can't
always be sure of the quality. But
we've changed wholesalers since then.
We're getting the real Canadian
Scotch now."
Eddie sat on a log by the roadside
and the three returned to their task.
They regarded him, evidently, as one
of them a man dependent upon
liquor who would not dream of be
traying the illicit traffic which almost
daily crawled across the state like a
stain.
"Ship's just in, I take it," he said
carelessly. "Passed the other four
trucks down the road aways."
"She got in at dawn," replied Os
car. "We work up there all night.
Maybe you think it wasn't cold, sleep
in' on the deck of that truck with
only one blanket."
The tire was bolted, and the truck
was ready to take up its journey.
While the other two clambered to
their places, Cullcy went to the box
under the seat and drew forth a bot
tle of golden brown liquor. "Needn't
be afraid of this stuff, kid," he said.
"It's the real goods. I think it's the
best we've hauled this season. Hey,
Jake?"
"Uh huh," agreed the driver.
"So have a real one on us," con
cluded Culley, waving his hand. He
knew that he could partake of this
liquor. Though they had drugged and
shanghaied him before, it was not be
cause of personal enmity. They did
it for some mysterious reason which
he had not been able to solve, and at
the persuasion of some unknown ad
versary. This was a peace offering
of booze, at least reasonably pure
They were drinking amends for shab
by treatment. Which shabby treat
ment they would repent, however, if
inducements were offered.
He had fooled them and put him
self up against one of the gravest
crises of his life. Craving for liquor
was scratching at every nerve. The
kick of the alcohol how he yearned
for it. Alcohol was in his hand. He
could almost smell its fumes. And
he knew that, if the actual odor came
to his nostrils, he wns gone,
Cold perspiration came out on his
forehead. His mouth went dry. Hi
teeth were clenched as though the
tetanus germ had locked them. Ridges
of muscle appeared on cheeks which
had grown haggard. The fight was
on, and it was going to a finish.
The tension eased. "I don't have
to settle it right this minute," he told
himself speciously. "Let's go and see
about that ship."
He wore no coat, for the day was
bright and warm. He thrust the bot
tle inside his flannel shirt where it
gurgled against his body with every
step. He was marvelously relieved
that a reprieve had been granted,
even on terms so shabby.
The cove was deserted. Far out
on the lake he discerned the dumpy
outlines of a good sized fishing tug.
heading for Canadian waters again.
There were few marks of the unload
ing. The beach had been raked over.
probably, and. there was no one in
sight. But a stroll up the Bhore re
vealed behind masking undergrowth
a log house built partially below the
lake level. A channel ran to its
strongly-padlocked door. Part of the
overhanging bank had been tunneled
to receive the rear of the house.
"They keep to their skiffs in there,"
he mused. "I suppose if all the trucks
aren't here when they need them, the
stuff is locked up until they come."
The possibilities of the cove were
exhausted and his own problem press
ed. The longing for liquor lay in
wait so that when mind and body
were unoccupied, it seized on them.
"While I'm busy it isn't so bad," he
thought. "Well, let's try keeping
busy."
Below the cove the shoreline turn
ed abruptly to the east, taking in
many square miles. He plunged into
this wilderness which was to him
virgin. It was pleasant walking. The
soil was more than mere sand, and
firm underfoot. There was hardwood
mong the jackpines and an occasional
great white pine tree which had evad
ed tho axe and saw.
He drove steadily eastward holding
the appetite at bay by physical exer
tion. Not for a moment did he for
get it, like a tiger it lay in wait, ready
to spring. The gurgle-gurgle against
his side was its hunting-cry.
He had started on a faint trail, but
this had long since disappeared. The
silence was profound, except for the
subdued twitter of birds and his own
faint footsteps. A crash in the un
dergrowth ahead startled him. A
magnificent buck crossed a little
clearing and zoomed like an airplane
over the top of a fallen tree. Two
does followed, taking the same prodi
gious leap in graceful fashion.
There was no breath of air stirring.
He wiped the sweat from his face
with his sleeve. At a rivulet which
was one of the headwater streams of
Portage creek he stopped to drink
deeply. The cold water was grate
fully refreshing. He plunged straight
bearing a little to the south.
Somehow he did not dare sit down
to rest. He was afraid of the bottle.
If he could only keep going he had a
chance to win. A blister formed on
his right heel and his shoe rasped
painfully at every step. His clothing
was quite wet. An unnoted blackberry
briar had drawn itself across his
face, leaving a red trail that Bmarted
and stung.
Noon came and passed. He was
walking automatically now, obsessed
with one idea only to keep going on
and on. The earth became soggy.
His feet stumbled on slippery, regu
larly recurring humps, and he stopped.
The underbrush had become very
thick and high. He was following a
green tunnel through it. The bumps
under foot were the remains of a
corduroy road, built to facilitate the
taking out of logs years ago. He fol
lowed the road. Within a little time
it ended on the edge of a cedar
swamp.
A devil s cradle was ahead of him.
Dead cedars with white trunks and
short, spiky branches lay, stood and
leaned in the stagnant water. In
places the trunks were five deep in
inextricable tangles. Here and there
was long and brilliantly-green grass,
but he knew there was no solid foot
ing where such tufts grew. It was
a cunning trap to snare the trusting.
A foot upon such a tuft meant in
stant descent into sucking black ooze.
Crows cawed dismally on some of the
trees which still stood upright.'
CHAPTER XVI'
A Victory.
It was impossible to determine the
area of the swamp. The stiff and hos
tile trunks melted away against a
line of blue hills on the horizon. Ndt
far ahead, though, there was an oasis,
an island which rose a few feet above
the black water and was crowded
with vigorous trees. It was perhaps
an acre in extent. There was a breeze
over there, the trees swayed.
"This seems to be a sort of well,
a symbol," he thought. "It's infern
ally hard going. It's dangerous. I
don't know how far across. It would
be easier to sidestep it, to go around.
But it's in my path. It blocks the
way I'm going. Why should I let
cedar swamp buffalo me? I winder
if this booze question wouldn't have
been easier if I'd fought it in the
past inatead of sidestepping? . Of
course there isn't any answer for
that. But I know I couldn't think so
much of myself hereafter if I ducked
this. So here goes."
Bofore many yards had been cover
ed he regretted his decision to cross
the swamp. It seemed useless and
foolhardy to battle this grim and
treacherous area. The labor was ap'
pallingly hard. He crawled on hands
and knees along the slanting logs,
their spikes bruising him and tearing
the skin.
Sometimes he slipped on the trunks
which had gathered moss that made
them as smooth as ice. Then he
barely escaped dropping Into wells
of black water, paved far below with
muck in solution. He knew the mix
ture had the clinging power of quick
sand. The sun beat down viciously.
At last he won the oasis and flung
himself down to rest in the shade of
a good sized tree. His chest heaved.
He closed his eyes and fought the
vivid outline of an action which his
appetite painted over and over on
his brain.
In this action he saw himself with
drawing the bottle from his shirt,
removing the cork and tilting his
head so that the fiery liquid might
run down his throat. He could sniff
the beguiling bequest of the raw li
quor and feel the filliped nerves tin
gle to the ends of his fingers and
toes. The counterfeit sensations
caused him fairly to shudder with a
longing to make them authentic.
He raised himself on his elbow to
look out over the waste which inter
vened between the island and the fur
ther shore. It was not so distant as
it had seemed, but it was greater
than the first lap. He shook his
head. "No booze until that's behind
rne. Too dangerous. I need every
thing I have to make it."
He took up the journey again. Now
progress was slower. He was tired.
The tangle seemed worse, the water
deeper and blacker. Once he slipped
and was immersed hip deep in the
tepid water. He hastily crawled back
to the grudging surface of a slender
stick.
As he crawled one wide pool on a
cedar whose far end was insecurely
anchored, so that the trunk rocked
with his weight, the bottle slipped
from his shirt and plopped into the
water. He straddled a log to consider.
It was getting late. The shadows
were long over this fiends' playground.
But he could not leave without the
bottle. His nerves were searching
with renewed insistence. Appetite
beat upon him. shook him, tore him.
He had to have that liquor. Yet he
knew that the clamor was fictitious,
and that there was a deeper reason
for repossessing himself of the flask.
If he went on without it, he was cra
venly avoiding the possible knockout.
It would be a drawn battle which he
would have to fight again. The whis
key might be the bludgeon of defeat,
but it might also be the symbol of vic
tory. He might lose it, but he could
never run away from it.
He removed his canvas leggings, his
shoes and, socks, as he perched peril
ously on the uneasy trunk. He let
himself down into the pool. His toes
encountered the muck. His arms were
extended their full length before his
toes encountred the bottle in the
sooty depths. It was a task requiring
muscular strain and dexterity, to grip
the bottle between his feet and bring
it snrfaceward.
A new difficulty presented itself. He
released a hand to reach downward
for the bottle. It eluded him, and
tank again. As he lunged for it, the
other hand slipped and he went under.
Back at the surface he shuddered
with distaste and clung to the log.
The dead water and the treacherous
molasses like muck filled him with
nausea. Yet they had to be braved.
He took a full breath and thrust him
self under. His arm encountered the
muck and was absorbed in it, yet his
lingers felt no bottle. His shoulders,
the top of his head were in the ooze,
yet the desperate fingers closed only
on slime. Closing his eyes he ram
med downward until the muck was in
his nostrils.
It drew him, sucked him insidiously
into its grip. Panic that made his
eyes pop and his heart race possessed
him. But something elemental and
fundamental would not permit him
to withdraw. Both arms worked in a
wide circle. His lungs cried for air.
His eardrums cracked. Re was under-
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going all the agonies of drowning.
At lastl A fingertip touched it. He
worked lower, grasped the bottle firm
ly, and splashed frantically upward.
The mud clung to him, it was reluc
tant to let him go. But a submerged
log aided him with a firm footing. He
heaved waist high above the surface,
now as opaque as a puddle of ink.
He breathed deeply and thankfully.
While he dangled with one hand he
inserted the bottle into one of his
shoes, which were tied together and
swung across the log. His reserve
strength was all but drained before
he was on the uneasy log again, hie
shoes on his feet, the bottle buttoned
within his shirt.
Sunset was at hand before he won
the shore, to find another corduroy
road opening out conveniently in
front of him. And he was trembling
with weakness. The bottle was at his
lips. . . .
Patsy Jane's face came up before
him, her eyes swimming in tears as
she raised them to him in Lawyer
Kinnano s office. There was that fond,
tremulous smile of her lips. Some
how the wonder of her, the priceless
boon of her love, came to him as it
never had before. She was the most
precious thing in the world.
He jammed the cork home again,
the liquor untasted, and thrust the
bottle back into his wet shirt. He
strode buoyantly away, laughing with
joy and relief. The enemy was de
feated. Though not entirely routed. There
were other waves of clamor, though
their strength was noticeably less.
The craving died down as darkness
thickened. The liquor became unim
portant until he no longer thought
of it.
It was late when he struck a road
leading in the direction of the ranch.
It was nearly midnight when he
trudged wearily into the log bunk-
house which he shared with the other
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hands. He could hear their snores
through the thin board partitions.
He lighted his oil lamp, and stood
for a time surveying the liquor. With
a little shake he addressed it.
"Oldtimer, you did your best. But
it wasn't good enough. You're licked,
and licked for keeps. And if you don't
believe it, I'm going to make1 you
prisoner, sort of keep you around, to
prove it."
(Cmu'r.ued Next Week.)
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