The Seattle post-intelligencer. [volume] (Seattle, Wash. Terr. [Wash.]) 1888-1914, 1891-10-25

II.
In the afternoon of the midsummer Gav
the shingles on the ranch roof had shrunk
and curved. and the heat inside the house
became unbearable. The ranchmen gath
cred outside in the shade of the trees that
bordered the brink of the creek. Down IN
the bed of the red-colored river the cattle
stood where thsshallow stream was deep
est seeking GOODNESS. The blackja Jack forest
near By was stiller than night. No bird
chirped in its depths; the deer lay painting
in its shadows. 1t was Sunday, and no
sight nor sound of work disturbed the
quiet of the ranch. The midday meal was
over, and the ranchmen had gathered for
the conventional game.
Only now and again the form of man,
habited in a dirty white apron. gIided past
the open front door, and in the main room
of the cedar picket building at times the
clatter of plates and knives and forks
being slowly washed and put away reached
the ears of the card players.
The sun slowly began TO move towards
its farewell point on the horizon behind
the distant bluffs. A few white clouds
foated lazlly between it and earth, and
cool gray shadows fitted over the dry and
embrowned grasses. The cattle moved in
the stream and occasionally sought the
banks. 1t became cooler, and little wind
rustled the leaves and aroused the deer
in the blackjacks.
The game went on slowly and almost
silently; the clatter of dishes within the
house ceased. Then there arose from the
rude kitchen faint, uncertain, murmurous
notes of violin, and the card play be-
came still more vague and meaningless,
and the players moved uneasily and ex-
pectantly. The music became more firm
and took shape, and the sweet notes of an
old familiar world song loated through
the open doors and windows. HI held his
card raised ready TO play, but he only beat
with slow time in the air. Big Jim's feet
tapped in unconscious unison. Derrick
threw his hand down deliberately, and w.
ing at length on his back hid his eyes with
the PREDETERMINED hat. One of the crowd
softly sang the words of the air with a
throat that had been trained to sing long
ago IN village schools and college glee
clubs. The music changed from air to air.
but gradually the sweetness died out,
though the mournfulness remained As
if in harmony with the artists soul, the
clouds came up more swiftly and hid the
sun. All the plain was gray and the
woods were black.
Ri moved uneasily.
Darn him! He's off again, spite of all
tellin'n' he muttered, and threw himself
on his face and chewed grass viciously.
Gloomier and gloomier sounded the
strains from the ranch. Grayer and gray
er grew the skies Then. weird as the wail
OF the wayfarer when ne had tied from the
rush of the blizzard, and bitter as his
nights of despair, the music rose to pitch
nf cYiN h ;.E,
the listeners.
HI jumped to his feet and drew his re-
volver, but Derrick was quick as he, and
motioned him back.
Derrick, it's just this. I've got 10 do
1t, can't stand this goldarned triding
with my sensi0iIities no Ionger!"
The others were sitting up, and big Jim
nodded sympatheticaily.
Every Sunday he starts in and ruins, fell
lars, slmp ruins our innocent enjoyment
OF the Sabbath day. II don't seem OF TO
account whether we're drunk or sober, lght-
in or mendin things, or listening 70 the kid
reading-it's all the same 10 that ere lost
and measly loonnatic Out comes the
blasted fiddle, an he plays upon us-as If
as II We was hair-triggers, TO go of into
tears or horrors. Gentlemen, l put it TO
the vote. ! don't want 10 be made
woman Of by crying over songs no more,
and don't want TO get the iim-jams an
nary a drink to make 1t excusable. | mean
10 shoot into that darned fiddle till the
music's shot out Of it. 1t amt no human
fiddle nohow."
There were evident signs of approval, but
Derrick interposed hastily.
1T won't happen again, boys" he said,
hurrledly and anxiously. "lll-Ill see TO
II myself. He only plays so when the fit's
on him, and he's gettin' better every day
III so and speak 10 him, and bring him 20
reason. Besides, tellars. I knew him
once't, as I've told you. and he's had
him"
It'll De the same thing again. Best let
ne put the darned thing out OF misery.
H argued.
We'll, fellars." said Derrick, quietly.
wait till the kids gone"
''Oh, OF course" H growled. "the kid'u
stand up for him, cause he saved his life,
wuss luck. However, seem it's the kids
last night 10 home with Us, boys
Derrick waited for no more, but walked
into the house. In the kitchen he found
the ylollnISt. II was the lost waytarer,
the man he had picked unwiIiingly from
the drifts, 81 the lad Herman's entreaty.
1t was the man he had called al" his
Old partner.
Derrick walked softly up 10 him. The
man sat on the bed, lingering the strings
OF the Eddle. He had a very thin and
haggard face. and his eyes were strained
and bloodshot. He moved as Derrick
came to hin, and looked Al him for : no.
ment without recognition-then ciutched
him eagerly by the arm, and drew him
down towards him.
Any news?' he asked. hoarSely.
IN his presence Derrick was not as he
was with other men. His bluff, brutal
manner was subdued and frightened; his
tones were always apologize and peni-
tent; his looks as those OF one who would
maNe atOnement.
No news, Al, old chap. leastwise no
news today" ne said "How's things
with you, anyway. The boys was saying
Jest now how your playing was more ma
tural and hearty Ike than they've heerd.
They was pleased considerable, / guess"
oh they're most pleased with the cook
ing, he added, feeling now on undlsputed
ground.
You'd best les stay here, old man. an