The silver state. [volume] (Winnemucca, Nev.) 1909-1925, 1915-02-18

kind, an you beat him at pretty near
everything. Finally you beat him out
for the woman he loved as only the
tender heart of him could love, an
that SEM him wandering on his lonely
quest for peace.
Whether twas peace or strength
he found, l don't know, an now | new
err will know; but he was coming
home. You knew he was coming, an
whether you feared an hated him I'll
never know that either. but you met
him-an' you killed him. Twas the
feud, conscious or unconscious. Twas
still the feud.
do | bear you enmity? Listen! 1
hate the air you breathe an the
ground you walk on. hate the
clothes you wear an the food you eat.
You bested him always, an then you
killed him, an l hate you till the soul
of me aches with hatred of you an Of
your brother. An so l will till the end
Of the feud."
That night the soft snow lost itself
in the wet misery of ra~in-drenched sur
faces as it vainly tried to cover the
harsh outlines Of things, and black
thoughts were stirred in the mind of
Tim O'Curran by the distorted mem
cries of the years.
The next morning Tom Clarkson
was found in the northwest corner OF
the f~reightyard, a thin film of snow
jeweling the blackness of his clothes
and glazing his face.
1t was the chief who found him
his brother. He was sitting on the
ground, propped against a 1at-car
wheel, his head thrown back and his
dead eyes staring into space, as though
anxiously following the flight of his de-
parted spirit.
An ugly lent marred the fine out
line of his forehead, brutally sufficient
for its murderous purpose.
The chief dropped onto his knees
and ripped the stiff gloves from the
stiff fingers, trying, with something OF
hysteria, to chafe life back into the
loved hand. Then he ripped open
overcoat, coat, vest, and shirts-but
beyond the cold flesh the heart was
still forever.
The scrunching of heavy footsteps
aroused him, and he turned the agony
of his strong face to the eyes of Tim
O'Curran, the ~yardmaster. At he
sight of it the black vengeance died
from the heart of Tim O'Curran like
a small fire of hate before a deluge of
pity. The sorrow of the grief-strick-
en- man leaped straight to the sorrow
of O'Curran's own grief-stricken heart.
The ~quickened memory of his W
anguish wrapped itself around the
anguish of his enemy and bound him
closer than kin or love.
He ran forward, white as the dead
face, and in his heart he wished that
God would end his grief and remorse
with humiliation. Tenderly Clark
son let the stiffening form rest against
the wheel and arose.
THE yeggmen have got him, Tim"
he said hoarsely, grateful for the pale
sympathy Of O'Curran's face. O'Cur.
ran, in desperate hope. bent down to
the lifeless clay, from which he knew
the life had gone six hours before.
'"Twas a cruel deed" he muttered.
"'Twas a cruel deed" but his fast
falling tears would not warm back the
life his W hand had taken. Together
they carried him to the freight shed.
The O'Curran and the Clarkson plots
were side by side, and two days later
they laid him beside the man whom he
had sent on the journey so short a
while before him.
But the spirit of tragedy still how
cred over the ~freightyard of San An
dora, for Tim O'Curran knew that this
was not the end of the feud.
With bent head he stood by his
brothers grave and fought the matter
out with his soul.
At length he found strength for the
resolve he would make.
"'Twas a cruel vengeance took for
the life of you, Martin" he muttered,
"but tbs the grief of the living an not
the ghost of the dead that has haunted
me eve since-the grief of the woman
true heart loved, an the grief Of
the strong man that | saw like a little
child. | can feel the love an the ache
of his heart. for did l not feel it for
yourself. An now his is added to my
own.
"'Twas a cruel an a senseless feud,
made in my own mind as ii is borne
in my own heart, an tbs myself only
can end it. So l will go to Jim Clark
son an | will say:
my pity has eaten the heart out
of my revenge, but tbs by the mercy
of God. SO now. end the feud, but do
it by the way of the law, an so gain
ease for your grief an rest for my
He knelt for a moment by the grave,
then. arising, turned to go, and, bright
er than the moonlight, looking into mis-
were the eyes of Sim Clarkson.
Snow began to sift through the still