The Aberdeen Democrat. (Aberdeen, South Dakota) 1???-1909, 1903-11-13

/ ol IiS Gi!SSl duu ICi eyes UuTAiu2 H.
sistently into his. He did not move
nor repulse iler, but the cultural runs
bic OF his answer conveyed no intelli-
gence to the listening prisoner. Her
voice, although low, was clearer, and
Marsden's veins tingled with a sense
Of impending tragedy as she stepped
oack and threw out her arms in an
unconsciously dramatic gesture.
Pedro, l have been a good wife to
you. left all that l had to 20 with
| you, and my fathers curse followed
me, and is on me yet. Have | ever re-
preached you with these things, or
raised my voice against whatever you
chose to do? You will do this one
thing for me, Pedro? Or l would do
1t myself, oh, SO gladly, if there were
danger for you-if you would but let
me! You will notch, you cannot
leave him here, like a dog"
Her voice broke huskily in a. storm
OF passionate tears, and she fed back
into the little hut, ninging herself once
more on the rough bed in the corner,
uttering broken little means which
made Marsden SILVER.
The tall brigand must have had a
soft side, even though his weapon had
been SO very hard against Marsden's
head, and he slowly followed her in,
pausing to bend over his prisoner by
the way and push him curiously with
"is foot. Marsden lay there inertly,
with eyes closed and suspended breath,
blessing the kindly darkness of his
corner, and with a final shove, his
captor went over to the woman, say
ing little, except for an occasional gut
tural word or two, which left the pris-
oner hopelessly unenlightened as to
the nature Of the little hill tragedy be-
fore his eyes. Only this one thing was
plain; the words were kind, and the
violence Of her grief was subsiding, al
though she still lay in a huddled heap
at his feet, while he stood arrow
straight, looking down at her.
Then they went out again, and for
Marsden the import of these things
faded into darkness before his own
situation. What would this villainous
looking half-breed do with him? The
ache in his head and shoulder remind
~ 1880 NiStSy "oulo NC SSdill, llldI
life itself hung on a slender thread of
expediency. He strained at his bonds
cautiously, seeking a weak point.
Inc fairness of early morning still
hung ever the valley, touched the hill
tops with rose lights, and fingered,
fresh and understanding, in the faint
ly stirring air. On a nearby planta-
ton the poems had already gone forth
10 the coffee fields, but here in the tiny
village men were less Industrious, for
why should a man bend his back to la
Dor when generous nature provides
fruit at hand for his eating, and Il very
few garments will suffice?
1t was a languid little village, with
a few struggling houses and a small,
rare church in the middle of all. Even
the church was closed, and the only
sign of life was a dust-stained peon,
sitting on the ground by the church
door. His light shirt and trousers
his only garments-were torn by
brambles, and the WEAKNESS of a long
journey spoke in the droop of his
head as he leaned against the church
wall, his knees drawn close under his |
chin, and in his mouth a bit of straw, |
which he chewed absently as he
waited.
Evidently he had come far in the
early morning, and the cause of his
coming lay beside him, a bit of a
pasteboard box, lidless and frail, but
there were bright, wild-blooming
flowers twined over the edge, and
within it lay a tiny naked child, quite
still and cold, with small, wasted hands |
crossed over his breast, and another |
bright flower placed within the stiff
fingers.
1t was a strange sight, crude and
chastity, but one not likely to arouse
the faintest surprise here. Often men
sat thus before the door Of the little
church, their dead beside them, carried
down over the twisting trails through
the night or in the early morning, in
such ann as the surviving could
afford. They were poor, these ragged,
careless poems, but seldom were the
pesos too scare, or the way too long,
for the living to carry the dead many
miles over the hills and down here to
the little church, to give them burial.
1t was such a tiny box which the
crouching peon had brought down in
the earlymorning, that the light burden
could have caused no WEAKNESS, save
Tor the pitiful stiffness of the little
figure within. From time to time he
looked slowly down at the flower
deeked child, but there was nothing
in his face Of sorrow or joy, despair
or hope-only a ~listless acceptance of
the inevitable. 1t was fate, this and
many other things.
The padre was a long time coming
had Been up betimes, but he had
y guest this morning, a sore and weary
Americana who had dragged himself
into the village the night before, hav-
ing suffered g%rieyously in body and In
purse at the hands of the cleverest of
robbers. It was a miracle, surely, that
he should be here, since where Pedro
Gonzales robbed he e killed, and
foolish men who ventured alone across
the hills. with gold in their belts, dist
ATnaarad frnvn tima Ia ffnnn like srnh- 1