The San Francisco call., 1905-04-09

was thinking Of some one else who had
been little, an weak-like in the back,
from the time that his baby eyes had
first learned to know her, in her big IN
valid's chair, until the coffin lid had
shut away her patient smile forever.
All through the year of his prison lie
that smile had been with him, its light
making clear the dark places over
which his feet had stumbled. brighten
ing the future when his despairing
eyes looked into it, and at the last IL
Illuminating the shadowy chance OF his
escape. And now by the same light ne
saw that come what might he could
not abandon this weak little woman IN
her helplessness.
But to go back over the trail that he
had covered in hot haste in the night
to Deer Creek Valley, of all places
end with the stolen clothing upon him!
If she would only come to- There was
no sign of change in the blue-White,
delicate face, no life in the wasted,
small figure. How could any one leave
her to the mercy of this blundering.
irresponsible wretch? Houghton set
his lips hard, and rising, trudged mis-
erably on. Dayie staggered along In
the rear, his head stupidity nodding at
each unsteady step.
Slowly the daylight grew, widening
the cheerless prospect about them;
the stunted brush, the rocky trail, the
murky river, winding its sullen way
among the boulders. The cleansing
SHOWS of winter had not, yet come, and
the water moved sluggishly, heavy
with refuse. Heughton strode along,
the little woman in his arms. Her
weight was as nothing. but at every
seep he felt the crushing pressure OK
impending ruin.
Again he reviewed the events of five
days ago; his sudden discovery of the
plan to escape that had been perfected
by the others; his Mortified recoil from
the method that they had adopted; and
then his deteSmined opposition to the
violent means that they had proposed,
and his triumph over the baser spirits
among them: even now he shuddered
at the thought of the horror that his
hrmness had averted. Captured or
free, there would be no bloodshed to
answer for; nothing but the severing
of shackles, the breaking down of pris-
en- bolts.
He thought again of the desperate
chance that had opened his prison
doors; the marvel of finding himself
again at liberty; the greater marvel OF
Keeping that liberty, in the face of
hundred periis. The chances that had
befriended him: his lucky find of a
1aborer's clothing. his well-sustained
disguise under the chaff of the hospi-
table hunter who had fed him. He re-
called the hunters amusement over the
guileless brogue that he had affected.
and bitter smile crossed his lips at
the recollection. To have had all this
work together for good, and then to
have to abandon it all, lest q drunken
man work harm to weak little wom-
an whose patient face had brought
back to him the rich heart life that had
once been hisi
The prison doors yawned again be-
fore him, and he groaned- How they
would laugh, the other inmates of the
prison, whose companionship he had
scorned! He pictured the whole hate
full round of his prison life; the daily
association with debased and brutal
characters; characters that only grew
the more repulsive as his association
with them heightened. To go back to
the torture of their taHpts-to the long
agony of years that stretched ahead
God! Who could tell how long a
chain?
The Cornishman had, of course, noti-
fled the Sheriff that he had located one
of the escaped convicts; five hundred
dollars reward was too big thing to
let slip through ones hands for few
hours delay, and even aside from the
reward 1t was easy to read in the Cor
nlSnmanS bearing MS stern, 1mpldc-
able sense of justice. To uphold the
1aw-Gerald Houghton had read that
upon the miners brow as clearly as
though the words had been expressed.
Even now there might be a dozen men
between him and the railroad, and the
Sheriff on guard beside the water
tank. And here he was walking back
to the danger point from which he had
fed SO eagerly. The theft of the cloth
ing would serve only to fasten more
firmly upon him the shackles of the
law. A burst of fury seized him as he
thought of the clanlped irons again
about his wrists. If only the Cornish
man would kill him-shoot him in from
tier fashion, or if
Houghton came to dead standstili.
The Cornishman was standing before
him. The somber accusing eyes were
fixed upon Houghton. but the speech,
cold and mocking, was for the drunken
man.
Hey, Davie. it's foine yer comm
home at this hour An yer wife
cloimbin the trail in the dark goin'
0ooononona aaaAAonnnnooo