The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1889-06-19

had spent the day, the snow was binding
and the cold had almost conquered the
feeble efforts of the kitchen stove.
"Well, air ye goin' to the office"
asked Haven in somewhat liquor
weakened voice.
"No; there is no paper on Monday
morning, you KNOW" replied the COM
positor.
sThat's so, forgot about it. It's
mighty cold here; what's the matter"
"The coal is nearly gone. Didn't you
get some yesterday?"
sDidn't have no money, an now I'm
out of job, can'tg get none. What'll we
do, Madge?"
"I'll have my month wages soon, and
then it'll be all right"
IL heard somethin' ter-day."
"What was it, father?"
"That Horris told on me,so as to get
my job. Said to the comp'ny that I was
good-fer-nothin' an got me discharged.
III get even with him, doggon his dog
goned picter," and the man clenched his
hands angrily. Suddenly his face
lighted up with strange expression.
'He comes back tonight from the Gulch,
doesn't he?" he blurted out, and then
went to the door. The wind was still
fcrccr, and the air was fairly white with
snow. The thermometer had been
registering below zero for two hours, and
now was drawing near to the twenty de-
gree mark. No church bells could be
heard; indeed that Sunday is to this day
remembered as one upon which no even
ing services were held, on account of the
terrible storm. Up from the stream to
which the steep banks, separated from
the house by the narrow wagon road, led,
came the roar of the waters as they
dashed eastward, as if getting a good
headway for their long sluggish journey
across the plains to the sea.
"Il fix him." the girl heard him
mutter in his half-drunken frenzy, and
taking lantern from the closet he went
with it out into the night.
"What can he be doing?" she thought,
and waited with breathless anxiety for his
return. 1t was long time, but when he
came, it was without the light and with
clustering and blowing that told he had
been facing the storm.
"Where is the lantern, father2" she
inquired.
''It went out, and I had to drop it to
hang on to myself" he replied with a
leer.
She is not satisfied, but can get no
other answer; and as the fire is dying and
the bitter cold is creeping over her flesh,
she goes to the single upstairs room of
the swaying cabin, where she prepares to
sleep. Before doing so, she peers through
the curtainless windows. She can see
nothing, but can feel the dust-like snow
sift against her face as it is driven through
some crevice in the wall. All is black
outside. Just as she is turning away,
however, she thinks she sees twinkle of
light toward the river. She looks again.
Yes, surely it is there. Can traveller be
abroad in such tempest9 Surely not,
for the light remains still. She puzzles
over it a moment and then thought
comes to her that makes her tremble.
It is the lantern which her father has
hung out-why9 There can be one an
swer-to misguide his rival, who must
force his way through the storm tonight
and bring through the mail and stage
from the Gulch. The light will cause
him to turn to the right and throw stage
driver and horses over the bank, and send
them rolling to death plunge in the ice
filled river below.
SIN his drunken fury he is not him
SELF" she thinks, in excuse of the deed,
and determines to undo the crime which
was about to be committed.
Hastily wrapping cloak around her
shivering form, she creeps back to the
lower room. Her father is sitting before
the stove, apparently brooding over his
coming revenge. As noiselessly as posi-
BILE she opens the outer door; and though
the man turns and sees her slipping
through, she has vanished into the black
ness of the storm before he can call to
her.
In an instant ne recognizes her errand;
the thought of the slight, girlish form
battling with the fearful tempest, sends
the blood back from his heart and makes
a sober man of him in flash.
He rushes to the door and calls:
''Madge!" with all his strength. 1t is of
no use. Nothing but the wind and the
roaring Smoky reply. Putting on his
overcoat, which, ragged as it was, would
afford some protection, he starts to the
rescue. He turns the corner of the house,
and as the blast strikes him, he is almost
driven back. But he struggles on and
reaches the spot where he thinks he left
the lantern-none is there, nor can he find
trace of the daughter whose body is
somewhere being drifted under the snowy
covering. Back to the house, reached
with difficulty, he takes his course, and
in agony, alternately upbraids himself
and mourns the absent child.
x x X y x = X
"Bless me, driver, but this is hairy
sort of night" and the only passenger
of the Red Gulch stage drew his ulster
closer about him and even then shivered
little with the cold.
eyes, we'd orter hev stopped back
yender until mornin', but the mail haz
ter go through if we kin git it. Ye see,
they is awful perticlar about it an I
amt bin on the route before. I don't
want ter fail on my first trip"
"You don't mean to say you don't
l.. Il. .,,l 1ll