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About Vernonia eagle. (Vernonia, Or.) 1922-1974 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 11, 1938)
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DOANSPlLLS FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1938 VERNONIA EAGLE, VERNONIA, OREGON PAGE EIGHT Budget Lace Has a Lavish Appearance CATTLE KINGDOM By ALAN LE MAY CHAPTER XI—Continued —13— Too much long riding alone—espe cially when it was mixed up with the night riders’ long rope— could do queer things to a man whose head wasn’t too strong in the first place. Lon Magoon, half out law, half sneak-thief, all coyote, might have turned at last into some thing which must be destroyed at sight, without hesitation. Then he walked to the dead horse and roughly verified the angle of the shot; then turned and began to climb the canyon slope. “Billy, come back! You can’t—” “You stay down,” he ordered her, savagely. "Or by God, I’ll tie you down with my pigging-string!” It would have been easy then to walk into gunfire, easy to shoot it out with an ambushed man. Al ways keeping his eye on Marian’s position, he searched those upper slopes, backward, forward, and quartering. But what happened to him was the one hardest thing of all—to find the broken country emp ty and silent, with nothing in it to fight or trail. In the end he could only go back to the girl with no result to show, and no assurance as to what was ahead. He would not have been sur prised, when he turned his back on that emptiness, if a gun had spoken from a place where no one was, and brought him down. “No catchum,” he told Marian. She had not stayed under cover, but was sitting on a rock, a little apart from her dead horse. No use quarreling with her over that; she had already proved to him that he couldn’t control anything she chose to do. He put himself between her and the rim. “It’s a long walk back,” he said morosely. “That’s my fault. I’m not used to this stuff, or I wouldnt have lost my pony. When I saw your horse drop—I lost my head, I guess.” “Because it was I,” she said with an unexpected, deep-striking clarity. “We’d better get going, I think.” ■‘We can’t go on? And get—” “That must have been the man we were after, that killed your horse.” She drew a deep breath, and stood up. For a moment she looked all about her, upward at the high, tow ering rims. Then suddenly he saw her sway. He stepped forward in time to steady her with his hands on her arms. And now he found that she was trembling violently. Her face was white, making her eyes look enormous, and very dark. “Billy— I’m afraid—” She sat down on the rock again, as if her knees would not hold her up. “No more danger, child. It's all over, and he’s gone.” “But who could it be? Why should he want to—hurt me?” “I—I don’t know that. I can’t imagine any living thing wanting to hurt you. I swear, by la Madre de Dios!—he’ll pay for it if I live to find him. Now don’t you be afraid any more. It’s all over, for now.” The tears began to roll down her face, and she hid them with her hands. Quickly he looked about him, checking the throw of the land. Then he lifted her up and led her to a pocket gully at the foot of the pre cipitous north slope. When he had made sure that searching lead could not reach them here, he got the blanket from her dead pony, and spread it for her to rest upon; and gathered bits of dead brush to build a tiny fire. “Striking fire kind of seems like setting up a mark,” he apologized. “But you’re plenty safe if you stay close under the rock split. Now you take it easy. We’ll rest here an hour or so; then we’ll go back.” Marian drew up her knees, and hid her eyes against them. One of her hands reached out to him uncer tainly, and he took it. Her fingers were moist and cold, with a tremor in them; he warmed them between his hands, noticing how huge his hands were made to look by her slim fingers. Presently she looked up, shook her head sharply, and drew away her hand. “I’m all right now. Did you ever see such silliness?” “Rest easy. We’ve got lots of time.” The dusk had closed more rapidly at the last, and little light was left in the sky; but a moon was rising behind a high point of rocks, sil houetting a crag that looked like a horse’s head. He noticed how huge it looked, as moons do when they are low to the earth. The horse-head crag had a 400-foot profile, but it looked little against the moon, which was made to look bigger than a mountain, big ger than a range. “You know,” he said, “it’s funny how badly things work out; never the way you want them to be. Many and many a night, lying out in the hills, watching my fire—like this_ I’ve thought about how it would be. if you were there. How I’d get you to like these hills, and the coyotes talking, and the smell of smoke in your hair—you know, foolish stuff.” “I do love the hills,” she said. He shook his head "This isn’t • it. This isn’t right. You ought to be able to lie by your fire and smell pine timber. And that crick out there ought to have water running in it. You sit and listen to running water, and pretty soon you get to hear voices in it; sometimes you lie awake for hours trying to get what they say. But what’s more to the point, there’s likewise trout in the water. There ought to be a nice pan of trout frying, here on the fire.” “You fit with things like that, you know. As if you were made out of them.” He said, “A half hour’s rest in the rocks, with a long, long walk ahead—this is about as close as peo ple get to the way they want things, I suppose.” “It’s my fault, Billy. If I hadn’t been so stubborn you wouldn’t have lost your horse; you’d have gone on through.” “Shucks, now!” She was silent, and they sat look ing into the fire. The smell of au tumn was cool and clean in the air, across the dry sage; and the red- gold moon faintly mellowed the chill of darkness on the gaunt hills, so that they sat here in unreality, as if in a dream. “Some places,” he said, "they call that a harvest moon; the Indians call it the hunting moon, and they used to make smoke-medicines by it.” "What do you call it?” “Well—sometimes we call it a coyote moon. Because it puts a “Well, You See—” She Met His Eyes Again—“I Win.” kind of singing craze on the coyotes. They gather around on hill tops, seems like, and sing their hearts out, as if it drove them wild crazy, some way. Listen.” Far off, so faint a whisper that it seemed half imagined, they could hear now a queer high crooning, full of an interwoven yapping and trilling, like nothing else on earth. “It sounds,” Marian said, “as if there were 40 or 50 of them—sitting somewhere on a mountain in a ring.” “Two,” he told her. “They pair off this time of year.” “Two,” she repeated. “Then that's why there’s something more than moon madness in that sing ing.” He knew that they should be start ing the long return, but he could not bring himself to say so. The thing that had brought them together again—the disaster to Horse Dunn and the 94—had nearly run its course. And he knew that it was a good thing for him that it had. Al ready he had lived under the same roof with Marian too long for his own good. He no longer had any hope that he could forget her; she would always be in the back of his mind some place, waiting to come real close to him in his dreams. He supposed he would have to learn to live with those dreams. To sit with her now, far out and alone beside the little fire was itself an unreal and precious thing, now that he no longer fought against it. A quiet peace had come upon this place; or something as near peace as he ever knew any more. She was very near to him, so near that though their shoulders did not touch, it seemed to him that he could feel her warmth; and her hair, with the firelight in it, was a warm smoky mist, shot with gold, clouding his eyes. They sat for a long time listening to the faint coyote song and the lit tle popping of the fire. Once, as they sat quiet, he heard far off a thing he did not understand. It was so distant and so muffled that he could not at once decide whether it could have been the fall of a rock from a high place, or had been the report of a gun far away up the canyon, smothered by close walls and the drift of the air. He glanced at Marian to see if she had noticed it. and saw that she had not. Marian looked at him. the firelight • • • • • pooling long shadows under the lashes of her steady eyes. “I just thought of something.” “What was it?” “This—isn’t it kind of funny?— this is exactly the situation we were speaking of the other day.” He was puzzled. “When was this?" “In Inspiration.” For a moment he didn’t get it. Then it came back to him in a rush —the blast of sun upon the dusty street, the atmosphere of silent, waiting hostility, the groups of spurred and booted men in door ways, watching without seeming to watch; and he had stood talking to Marian across the door of a car, not thinking about what was ahead. “ ‘If you and I were set afoot,’ ’’ she quoted, “ ’some place far off in the mountains at night, with only one blanket between us—’ ” He was resting perfectly still on one elbow, looking at the fire; but he could feel her eyes, so near his face, watching him under her lashes. And behind her eyes he supposed she was laughing at him. “I was right,” she said. “You didn’t know it then, but you can see it now. You see—it seems a good deal different, now that we’re really here.” “Does it?” he said without ex pression. He got up with a sort of stiff, slow leisure, for the little fire was burning low. He went be yond the fire, squatted on one heel beside it, and fed it pieces of stick. “You see, I know you, Billy. Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.” Her eyes wavered and drifted out toward the low young stars. “I can remember when I was afraid of you. If we had been out here then—two years ago—I would have wanted nothing so much as to get back among other people. That’s all gone, now.” He looked at her. She had never seemed more lovely, more human, more elementally desirable than she looked now, a tired girl in cow country work clothes, slim and lazy, relaxed by the little fire as if she had never known any. other resting place in her life. Her face was quiet, almost grave; but though her eyes looked drowsy there was a little gleam in them that did not come from the flame in front: a small provocative glimmer of fire within, which he had seen in her eyes only two or three times in his life—and never before the last two or three days. Their eyes met and held, his steady and masked within, hers seeming to laugh at him a little, half veiled by her lashes. “I said,” she reminded him, “that if we were—in a situation like this, there wouldn’t be anything for me to worry about, nothing at all. And you said, if I thought that I was a fool. Well, you see—” she met his eyes again—“I win.” Still her eyes held, and he could not understand why hers did not drop. “I can’t believe, hardly,” he said, “that you have any idea what sort of thing you’re talking about.” She smiled. “You think I don’t? That’s because, western men are certainly the most conventional peo ple in the world.” Suddenly he angered. He had not brought her here of his own will, nor set them afoot, nor wished to rest here with her. He would not even have been on her range, or within a day’s ride of it, if her in terests had not drawn him in and held him. She had made her de cisions in regard to him long ago, and to change them he had spent his every resource without any ef fect. And now, at the last—it amused her to torment him. It seemed to him that there was a capricious she-devil in that girl— perhaps in all women, given op portunity. “You see, I know you,” she was saying again. The masks behind his eyes dropped away, and though his face hardly changed his eyes reddened, C Alan Le May WNU Servie, seeming to smoke with an angry Are that came up behind. She her self had lighted that fire, long ago. It was a Are that had driven him re lentlessly, making him rich; it could have made him work for her all her life—or it could break him again, and drive him up and down the world. Suddenly he did not know whether he loved or hated this girl. “I’ll give you the same answer I gave you in Inspiration,” he said, his words almost inaudible, even against the stillness of the night. “If you think that, you’re a little fool.” Still she met his eyes, so long, so steadily, so knowingly that he won dered for an instant what was hap pening, was going to happen, there under the coyote moon. Then he saw her face change, so that she was suddenly pale, and the unreadable light in her eyes went out, and she was like a little girl. Abruptly she pressed her face hard into her hands. He made his voice as hard and cold as the rocks that hung over them. “Now what?” She answered in a muffled voice, “I was wrong—I am afraid. I—I fail every one ...” She lifted her head and glanced about her, as if she were seeing this place for the first time. A black shape lay be side the empty dust of the stream, like a great black bottle overturned —the carcass of Marian’s dead horse. Suddenly the girl turned side ways, and dropped her head in her arms upon the blanket. She began to cry, terribly, silently except for the choke of her breath. He sat down against a rock and waited. The gaunt, dead rock-hills leaned over them sadly cold and silent, blackened by the twisted ghost shapes of the parched brush. And the coyote moon was pale and old, no longer golden, but greenish, like phosphorus rubbed on a dead and frozen face. Once she said, “But it’s your fault, too—that I fail—your fault as much as my own.” His answer was perfectly honest “I don’t know what you mean.” CHAPTER XII It was impossible for him to sit waiting for her weeping to stop, while her slim body shook con vulsively with her effort to suppress it, and her breath jerked uncontrol lably in her throat. Her tumbled hair made her seem a child; he had never seen her look so small, so fragilely made. And he thought he had never in his life seen anything so pitifully in need of comforting. He swore under his breath and got to his feet. For a few moments he stood over her, watching the movement of the firelight in her hair. He could hard ly prevent himself from touching her; almost he stooped and picked her up in his arms. But he was telling himself that that was the last thing she wanted. He walked out a little way into the dark, and stood listening to the night silence. He was still worrying about the distant muffled sound of concus sion which he had heard. It seemed to him now that what he had heard was unquestionably the sound of a gun—perhaps a gun fired near the forgotten miner’s shanty at the up per end of the gulch; but what he could not imagine was who could have fired it. He had assumed that it was Lon Magoon who had killed Marian’s pony; but now he saw that something was wrong. If Magoon had fired upon Marian Dunn and killed her horse he would not have gone to the cabin at the head of the gulch, but would have put long coun try between himself and them. Therefore two men, not one, must be prowling these hills. He thought of Coffee’s theory that there had been a third man at Short Crick— and was worse puzzled than before. (TO BE CONTINUED) Azaleas of the South Imported From France; Plant Brought From Toulouse Azalea time in the deep South is one of great joy and exquisite beau ty, writes Annabella Neusbaum in Nature Magazine. When the azale as. evergreen shrubs of delicate foliage, burst their buds, masses of flowers cover the bush until, its fo liage hidden, the entire plant is a glowing mass of living color. The gracious charm of old Mobile, with her quaint old streets and spa cious avenues lined with magnifi cent century-old live oaks and mag nolias, provides a perfect setting for the azaleas and camellias. Today, Mobile has a beautiful “Azalea trail,” a road some fifteen miles long that leads one through streets literally banked with these flowers. The plants range from two to twenty feet in height, the reigning color be ing a glorious deep pink. The history of the azaleas is close ly interwoven with the romantic his tory and tradition of the old South. They came to the New World short ly after Bienville founded Mobile in 1711. From old family records we There’s loveliness right at your fingertips! A filet lace cloth that's easy to crochet of everyday string, and quite the most beauti ful ever! The two 10 inch com panion squares are delightful to gether, yet one could be repeated and used without the other. It find that Francois Ludgere Diard, native Mobilian and direct de scendant of one of the original set tlers, returned to France to visit relatives in Toulouse. At the time of his visit the azaleas of southern France were blooming. He was so impressed with their dazzling splen dor that on his return to the New World he brought home three vari eties: a deep glowing pink known today as Pride of Mobile; a laven der-pink one, and a snowy-white one. Today, gorgeous specimens of these original plants can be seen in the oldest gardens—some of them perhaps a century and a half old, 20 feet high, and spreading out to a diameter of 100 feet. Now they are found all along the Guff Coast from Texas to Florida, up the Atlantic seaboard to South Carolina. Death of President Garfield President Garfield was shot on July 2. 1881, by Charles Jules Gui- teau, and died at Elberon, N. J., on September 19, of the same year. won’t be long until you’ve cro cheted any number of these sim ple squares to combine in “check er-board” fashion. Scarfs and small refreshment pieces are also handsome in this choice design if you use finer cotton. 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In 1716-1718 he published the first scientific periodical in Sweden, con taining records of his mechanical inventions and mathematical dis coveries, which Included the first airplane design to have fixed wings and moving propellor, the first air- pump to employ mercury, and the description of a method for determin ing latitude and longitude at sea by observations of the moon among the stars. In the “Princlpia,” a work on physics and cosmology, he arrived at the nebular hypothesis theory be fore Kant and Laplace. He was 150 years ahead of any other scientist in his works on the functions of the brain and spinal cord, and on the functions of the ductless glands. Swedenborg served as an active member of the parliament of his country for more than fifty years. Introducing fiscal reforms and much general legislation. At the age of fifty-five Emanuel Swedenborg discontinued his scien tific pursuits and began his work as a theologian, publishing the “Arcana Coelestla, Apocalypse Explained”; “Heaven and Hell”; “Four Doc trines" ; ’’Divine Love and Wisdom"; “Divine Providence”; “Apocalypse Revealed”; "Conjugal Love”; "True Christian Religion”; and other mis cellaneous theological works. Infor mation regarding the life and achievements and the works referred to, will be sent without charge by application to the Swedenborg Foun dation, 51E. 42nd St., New York City. Commemoration Edition SWEDENBORG LIFE AND TEACHING By Grurgu Tr abridge Prepared in commemoration of the 25Oth Anniversary of the birth of EMANUEL SWEDENBORG now being celebrated throughout the world. A book of 348 page«, hand- somely bound in semi-Hmp imitation leather cover», gilt lettering and rounded comers. 25 cent« postpaid; paper edition 10c. “Heaven and Hell’’ by Emanuel Swedenborg. 5 cent» poet- paid (mailing coat). 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