Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1903-11-05

back 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 go 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 | would do
it myself, oh, SO gladly, if there were
danger fer 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 fled back
into the little hut, flinging herself once
more on the rough bed in the corner
uttering broken little means which
made Marsdsn 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
his foot. Marsden lay there inertly,
with yes 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
ed him that mercy would be scant, that
life itself hung on a slender thread of
e%xpediency. He strained at his bonds
cautiously, seeking a weak point.
The fairness of early morning still
hung over the valley, touched the hill
tops with rose lights, and fingered,
fresh and sweet-smelling, in the faint
ly stirring air. On a nearby planta-
ton the poems had already gone forth
to 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 a very
few garments will suffice?
1t was a languid little village, with
a few struggling houses and a small,
hare 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, ild-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 vas a strange sight, crude and
CHASTITY, but n not likely to arouse
the faintest surprise here. Often mer
sat thus before the door of the little
church, their dead beside them, carried
down over the twisting trails througl
the night or in the early morning, in
such as the surviving coult
afford. They were poor, these ragged
careless poems, but seldom were the
pesos too scare, OF the way too long
for the living to carry the dead many
miles over the hills and down here tc
the little church, to give them burial
1t was such a tiny box which the
crouching peon had brought down ir
the earlymorning, that the light burden
could have caused no WEAKNESS, save
for the pitiful stiffness of the little
figure within. From time to time he
looked slowly down at the flower.
laplya6 child hut thnro ryoe nothipo
in his face of sorrow or joy, despair
or hope-only a listless acceptance Of
The inevitable. 1t was fate, this ant
many other things.
The padre was a long time coming
He had been up betimes, but he hat
a guest this morning, a sore and weary
Americana who had dragged himself
into the village the night before, hav.
ing suffered ~grievously in body and il
purse at the hands Of the cleverest Of
robbers. 1t was a miracle, surely, that
he should be here, since where Pedro
Gonzales robbed he ever killed, ant
foolish men who ventured alone across
the hills, with gold in their belts, dis.
appeared from time to time like peb.
bles dropped in a deep pool. The ras-
calls mind must have been nightly
taken with other things to have sc
neglected a victim; nevertheless the
Americana had escaped, crawling pain
fully through the bushes and running
slipping, lodging oyer the rough way
to the village, where the padre, reused
from his first sleep, had received the