The Portland daily press., 1892-01-22

and the noble red man snored on.
Dubs tried on the cartridge belt and
became an Indian, all but the indlspens
able knife, and he concluded to borrow
that from the sleeper, whose fingers had
lost their grip on the buckhorn handle.
cts bigger'n 1nommie's butcher knife,
amt it, Gay?' the young savage asked,
as he grasped the handle of the devillsh
looking blade. CHOW you 'tand over
we're and I'll get hind Wis wock. Ven
you tum along, an III jump out and kill
you"
Gay demurred.
"Oh, it's on'y make bleve. Vese kind
O. Injuns don't kill nobody" and he
stuck a contemptuous finger toward the
innocent Coyote. ''It's on'y PEACHES 'at
kills, an vey's none yound here, NOM
mic says. I'm 'Pache, SO you better
look out"
It was dubious sport for Gay, and
when it came to the killing part she
screamed lustily.
you've woked him up an 'poiled it
ALL" said Dubs in a tone of accusation.
"Now he'll want his knife.
Sure enough, the Coyote That Bites did
/ shake his brown legs and arms quite Wig
orously, but the last two big swallows
4 of mescal held him down. So, after
turning over and burying his hatchetlike
face in the sand, he lay quiet again.
When he had thus turned over, was
brought into view the rifle, which had
been concealed by his dirty blanket.
Dubs eyed the weapon with covetous
eyes. He could not Withstand the temp
tation Of feeling it all over, stand it up
on it's butt and trying to shoulder it, but
this last feat he could hardly accom-
plish. just what it was that kept his
fingers off the hammer and trigger, and
prevented sound that would surely
have brought the Coyote to his feet with
a yell, am sure cannot tell, but Dubs
played with that fascinating weapon for
nearly an hour, while Gay poured sand
over the cartridges, hiding nearly all of
them from view.
BY this time the SUMS rays were on
the long slant, and the children were
very hungry. By this time, too, the
Apache was growing restless, for the
mescal had nearly lost its grip upon him.
A train laundering by, or, much less, a
'sswift" brushing against his black foot,
a spider dropping on his leg, or even a
big fly buzzing at his ear-any of these
would have set his demon force into play
again.
But the children could not wait for
such demonstrations as these, though
why it did not occur to Dubs that the
Coyotes ear needed tickling with a
grease wood twig, the Lord only knows.
The wind was up, and the wires were
murmuring louder than ever. The wee
ones had sported in the black shadows
long enough-had played with the fangs
of the deadly serpent until they were
| tired and their stomachs were empty.
So they set off on trot for home.
Just as they turned the bend and came
in sight Of the low roof of the station, a
'.dust devil" swept by the rocks where
lay the Coyote fatalities. He jumped
to his feet, grasped his empty sheath,
gave mad whoop, and stared about in
feverish rage. There was his knife, half
covered by the sand, and there was his
rifle. far from his side. Here was the
cartridge belt, empty, and all about him
in the sand were countless little foot
prints.
A bewildered look stole over his face,
but it passed away when his eyes rested
on the empty demijohn. The expression
that replaced it was one Of demoniacal
ferocity, and the lust of slaughter lay
| heavily upon him. But the cartridges
where were they? He saw Gays mound
of sand, and kicking it, gave a grunt OF
delight to see the brazen capsules that
were scattered right and left by his foot.
He picked them all up, grunting over
each one. Filling the belt and grasping
his rifle, he started off in the direction
in which the small footprints led. Like
a bloodhound, he chased along the track.
His eyes scanned the plain at every turn.
and his breath was hot and strong. But
when he turned the big curve and saw
the station, he knew that he was late
too late-and he gave grunt of disgust,
and was off like the wind over side
trail that led toward the sunset.
In the low rooted station house the
mother crooned to tired little Gay, lying
SO soft and limp in her arms. She
looked out over the desert, saw the sun
touching the tips of the solemn giant
cacti with purple dots, saw the prickly
pear shrubs holding their grotesque
arms above the great sweep of sand that
ran down to the low horizon, and felt
the inspiration of the scene, as she had
often felt it before. For the desert has
beauty that is all its own. She knew
that other women in the great cities and
in the cool, green valleys might pity her
in that desolate spot, but she felt that
she needed not their pity. Dubs came
and leaned his head against her arm,
where she sat, and little Gay nestled
down with tired sign. Yes, there was
much, she thought, for which to be
thankful.
And in truth there was.-Frank B.
Willard in Overland Monthly.
1t Pays to Dress Well.
Paradoxical as it may sound, it ls
nevertheless true that few men can af-
| eo.,l - 5,,ocs boI1v. that ic OF loo of If