The Lakeland evening telegram., 1914-08-25
HOW LITTLE We KNOW
BY JOE Il. RANSOM.


tCOpNTlRNt.J
| have often thought of what might
have happened if Sam Spencer had
not found me when he did.
Destiny toiled along that dust
dimmed fat, stopped, wearied, dry
mouthed, without doubt cursing the
thoughtless being who led her thus
far afeld. Destiny stood by, perhaps
atop the burning plain, scornful, un-
whimpering, faithful
Picture the dear lady, older than the
hills whose profile beckoned like the
ghosts Of departed joys from the hori-
zon, dogging the steps of thirst-mad
man, through dust-choked miles, until
the weak being sprawled himself upon
the sands to die
The memory of that mad, heartless,
withering con Of fire Is to me of the
haziness Of the neyer-to -be-forgotten
nightmare, a smear of endless,
hellish miles-a throbbing fountain of
blood beneath my skull-myself a
mindless, Writhing automaton.
flung the canteen from me with q
thick curse in the afternoon Of the
first day.
1t was SO hot that it burned my
hands. The liquid that 1t gave me, its
last sip, was heated to the point OF
blood. | cursed the canteen and the
mad gods that had led me into this pit
OF burning
Then became the automaton and
simply moved, without JOY, pain, hate,
fear, my head hung between my shoul-
ders low to my breast, my arms hung
lstless at my sides, my legs moving
forward each in its turn without my
will, my back curved, creeping, shiv-
ering, grotesquely weeping thing like
unto distorted spirit, moving with
infinite labor endless through the fe-
vered acres of the damned.
1t Is all smear horror hid In
some recess of my brain, mercifully
stripped Of It's nauseating details. The
last concrete, tangible memory Is of
cursing the empty, senseless, scorch-
ing canteen as ! hurled 1t from me.
A man held me In his arms, pour
ing water upon my face, into my baked
lips. 1t was like fine, improbable
dream. The dream passed, and
went once more into unconsciousness,
my mad brain still fighting on through
the fire.
When l opened my eyes, with rea-
son for the first time replacing the
tangled phantasmagoria Of horror, they
rested upon the interior Of log hut,
with skins clinging to the walls and
small, square window looking out upon
the placid ranges.
was alone | noticed my hand
upon the coverlet and tried to raise
1t. The thing was pale, bioodless, al
most transparent could see each
fingers bone. An old scar on the
back OF the hand looked scared and
old and whitened like an alteration
on a long-bleached bone.
The hand refused to obey me. 1t
fluttered rose an inch and dropped
back feebly upon the sheet
Then man came in He had been
sharpening hatchet outside, and he
had 1t in his hand when he sat down
by the bedside.
He told me that his name was Sam
Spencer, and that had been his guest
five weeks He said 1t was hundred
and fifty miles to doctor. He had
pulled me through alone.
He had found me lying as dead on
the sand and brought me to his hut
and fought with the death that al
ready claimed me- He told me of the
fever that had burned me, of the fiend. |
ish visions that had tormented me.
Strength came slowly at first, then, |
In the quick mountain air with leaps
and bounds A fortnight saw me walk
ing about the cabin, doing light work.
A month and | was stronger than
had been in my life.
Spencer was a miner. He had pros
pected ten years. He had had some |
success enough to keep his own faith
and that Of the men who grub-staked
him. But he never realized his
dreams. He had lived the ten years
mostly alone, in the hills, sometimes
six months without sight Of human
visage
When had fully regained my