The Detroit times. [volume] (Detroit, Mich.) 1903-1920, 1913-05-16
The Fortunes of the Landrays
r., Of The
- stand hsUn
Author Of The Prodigal Judge"
Just and the Unjust etc.

4 colour that seemed to glare steadily
at him out OF the distance. As the
fires died. so did all sound until al
last a mighty silence held the plain
In it's spell; and with the silence came
q tormenting loneliness. But for the
black outline of the mountain peaks
against a lighter sky he might nave
been looking OF into infinite space
The night wind sinking TO murmur'
sighed about the wagons, softly
Tapping their bullet-torn canvases.
IL seemed to hold the very soul OF
that lone land. TIE trned his face 10
the east; somewhere there beyond the
night, In the new day that was break
ing, was Benson. With gulp of sud
den emotion he saw the valley as ne
had seen il on thousand summer
mornings. with no special realization
OF its beauty: dawn, the days pegih-
ming; here and there lanter hash
ing In and out among barns and out
buildings; the darkness growing al
ways greyer, always toward the hsh''
until the sleek cattle could be seen
In the fields, newly risen from the long
wet grass and with the dew yet spark
ling on TANKS and sides, crossing
slowly to pasture bars TO be fed ana
tended: and then far down the valley,
a touch Of glowing colour that crept
above the low hills 10 become fixed III
a narrow luminous rim which changed
swiftly to a great flaming quadraht
of light that grew into the level sun
Regret, terrible because II was I'M
availing, lay hold OF him. virginia
was there. Was II possible that py
any gift Of divination she could know
OF their danger? She had told more
than once that no evil would ever be-
fall him and she be wholly uncon-
scious OF IL. no matter what the dis
lance that separated them. He hoped
this was so. He prayed that II the
coming day closed on a tregedy, she
might learn at once OF the destruction
of the train: but who would there be
left to tell her of the end? None OF
his companions would survive, he was
sure of this. II Basil and Raymond
were responsible for the attack; in
deed. 1t would be the merest chance
II she ever knew. He would not so
back to her--that would be all: THIS
alone she would know, that he had not
returned; the rest would be conJec-
ture.
He recalled how they had passed
In indifference, the graves by the trail
side; they had not once been moved
to curiosity. even the most idle; for
what were these little tragedies In
the supreme selfishness Of that rush
across the plains, and who would
stop or turn aside 30 unravel the small
mystery Of their last stand? What
man would care who they had been.
or whence they came, when the GER
tain hand OF death had done its work?
Their very bones might bleach there
for hundred years before another
white man climbed that hill.
He told himself his fears were COW
ardly; he sought to reason himself
out of his forebodings; a thousand
things might happen when the day
came to make the situation seem less
hopeless. 1t was only the night. the
nspeakable loneliness and silence, or
the memory Of that CHASTITY presence
in the wagon, with its white upturned
face, that filled him with abject fear.
He closed his eyes, but the white
face was there before him-always
the white face--with the small dark
stain on the temple among the brown
curis the visible cause so inadequate
measured by the consequences. Dun
levy might have lived for sixty years
without that mark; and sixty years
were countless weeks, endless days.
hours and minutes innumerable; anc
yet all in a second, the possibilities
OF life had been withdrawn, and there
remained only the senseless clay and
the uncertainty that hope and love
had crystallized into its high belize
of immortality.
To get away from this he tried 10
think only OF Virginia. He saw her
again on the white porch OF their
home he could only remember her
SO; the days they had spent together,
seemed. blotted out and to have
dwindled to the agony OF that last
look; yet even this gave him hope and
courage. He thought now OF the time
when the toll and effort Of the trail
should be ended. when he should have
made or lost In this foolish enter
Prise. to his sobered judgment, Vt
mattered not which.
But what II this was his last night;
his lips parched, and his breathing be-
came laboured already in anticipa-
ton he tasted death. What II it would
be his lot to share poor Dunlevy
sleep, He thought with bitter regret
how he had filed Virginia's heart;
there were no children TO take his
place: all her strong maternal love
had been given to him.
His mind drifted back to common
places. He had disposed of his bust
meas In an orderly fashion before he
left home. Benson knew just how
matters stood, and be believed Benson
to be scrupulously honest. There
would be ample left for. her, II the