Forest City press. (Forest City, Potter County, D.T. [S.D.]) 1883-19??, 1916-05-10
{. That's alIs
YOU'RE sure of that. Jesse" Kilrain,s

You're sure Of that, Jess" kilrain's
voice bespoke his
Am l sure 1 see his tree here?" the
girl asked, brushing a small elm with
the tips of her s%cornful fingers. Course
1T might ha' been Aunt Agnes hoverin'
'roun' you with wraps SOS o wouldn't
ketch cold, father, when you come out
in this warm, night air; but, if it was,
she wore Bill Oranges clothes an his
body, too"
kllrain meditated in a growing UNI
easiness, through which some incredul-
ity persisted.
Il can't understand it," he muttered.
so far as l know, he has no cause to
make trouble"
"Ceptin' that he is Jealous of you
favorin' Buck Brannon,'' said the girl.
An it may be, father, some one else
is favorin' him. He seems to know a
heap bout COINS on at the Raccoon
River ranch."
If you mean Blass Cardross," COM
mented Kilrain severely, Il won't be-
lieve it of him, Jess. Hes dom wrong
things to Earle Worthing, but he amt
a scoundrel. He fights open"
In the uncertain light of the stars
Jess looked at her father, a curious
smile upon her lips. He couldn't see
either the pain or the tenderness that
suffused her eyes.
You'd have to be learned how to
do a mean thing, wouldn't you. fathero"
SsfS HS AL AAoAAS oPClI III llIl WI
unusual caress. "What a happy WON
an my mother must ha' been with
you!"
In that moment Kilrain realized that
Jess was unhappy, and the realization
also contradicted his recent estimate of
Blass Cardross with a force no mere
words would have carried, though now
the words came vehemently, too.
"Blass Cardross is a scoundrel, but
you keep your y on Grange. father.
He amt to be trusted. an he has no
use for Buck Brannon. 1 don't know
what you was all talkin' bout this
night, but l reckon If l throwed a big
enough stone at 1t 1 could hit some
where Close"
Il reckon you could. Jess" her ia
ther said, AN with o chuckin' it
'twouldn't ha' to be so all-firedly big a
stone, either. But that amt sayin' YOU
has any speakin' acquaintance with it,
my girl"
Jess e to her room upon reaching
the house. The unrest Of her mind was
augmented by the sullen humor Of The
g Hot and still it lay over the
parched earth. the skies cloudless yet
yelling the stars in a nebulous haze,
the far-off horizon pulsing with con-
tinual heat lightning. pale. and ominous
OF unbroken drought.
The girl wheeled her light bed be-
SIDE the window and, propping her
self up with pillows. lay wide awake,
her eyes on the vague outlines of the
silent plains.
She watched the lightning incessant-
~ So warm was the night
that the fltful breeze coming through
the window was more oppressive than
h absence Of it. The contact of her
pillows became uncomfortable.
Jess flung them aside, leaning her
llghtly clad body against the frame
plan was afoot that had taken her ia
ther and those others to Workings
house. Water she knew the Loop must
have soon if a fearful loss of cattle
was to be avoided, Inc water was not
10 ne had unless 1t came down the bed
OF the Raccoon liver. 1t took no very
great shrewdness to see that.
1t took rather sharp eyes, however.
TO see n object on the plains just
then; though. as Jess dropped lower on
her elbows, she thought h saw some
moving blur against the feverish flick
ering of the lightning. She kept very
still, as though Stiffness gave acuter
vision, n waited.
The lightning lifted, quivered, and
ceased. Upon its glow the dark shad-
ow OF a mans body fell and was lost,
was caught again less distinctly and
more distant, and appeared no more.
But Jess had seen enough to recog-
nlze in the rapidly walking man the
big figure of Bill Grange as he head
ed down the trail toward the Raccoon
River ranch, that trail which would
take him past h Skunk Hollow with
Its ravine whose memory now had be-
come so hateful to the girl.
She sat up quickly, cautiously. de-
spite the needlessness of caution, wait
ed a moment, and then, scarcely with
any coherent purpose, slipped her feet
down to the floor. and went across the
room to her clothes and began to dress.
The cuckoo clock in the dining room
was striking two hours past midnight.
CHATTER XIII.