The Tacoma times. [volume] (Tacoma, Wash.) 1903-1949, 1917-03-24
Nam of Music
Mountain s q ;s! $$ss$ N

should come again, to intercept his
visitor. For forty-eight hours he
tried cat-naps with an occasional
sandwich to keep up his strength.
Nan returned unseen, and disap-
peared despite his watchfulness.
When she did come, the third
time, an innocent snare discovered
her presence. De Spain had so
scattered handfuls of gravel and
little chips of rock--that should
she cross the ledge In the dark
she could hardly escape rousing
him.
The device betrayed her. "Pm
awake" announced de Spain. you
give me no chance to thank you."
Nan, drawing nearer, put down
la small parcel. 81 don't need any
thanks" she replied with calculat-
ed GOODNESS. 81 am hoping when
you are we'll enough you will go
away quietly, In the night. That
will be the only way you can thank
me-"
II shall be as glad to go as you
can be to have me-" rejoined de
Spain. But that won't be thank
ing you as I am going to. Lying
out here isn't Just what I'd choose
for comfort. But if by doing it |
could see you once In two or three
days"
"You won't see me again"
mo news could be worse. And
| II can't, | don't know how I'm
going to get out at all. If you
could tell me where | am"
do you mean to tell me you
don't know where you are?" Nan
asked.
De Spain seemed unmoved by
her skepticism. 81 can't tell you
anything else," he said simply.
You couldn't have any idea
crawled up here for the fun OF
it."
"Then-you are In Morgan's
Gap" she said.
81 know you are telling the
truth" he responded at length.
But can hardly believe 1t.
rode a good many miles that night
without knowing what I was do
ing, but how could l get here with
out being stopped?"
Everybody inside the Gap was
outside hunting for you, l sup
pose"
There isn't much use asking
where l am, in the Gap. l never
was inside but once. | shouldn't
know II you did tell me-"
"You are at the foot of Music
Mountain, about q mile from
where l live."
"You must have thought
meant to raid your house. You
want me out of here?"
| Very much"
I mo more than want to get
out, Perhaps by tomorrow
could walk few miles. I should
have to assassinate somebody to
get some ammunition"
at wouldn't be hard for you to
do that, l presume"
Her words and tone revealed the
intensity of her dislike and the
depth of her distrust.
He was silent for a moment
Then he said, without resentment:
You are ashamed already of say
ing that, aren't your"
mo, l am not" she answered
defiantly. "You are known from
one end Of the country to the other
as a gunman.
He answered impassively: "Did
these men who call me a gunman
ever tell you why I'm one? | guess
not" he went on Let me tell you
now. The next time you hear me
called a gunman you can tell
them"
II won't listen" she exclaimed,
FESTIVE.
Eyes, you will listen" he said
quietly; you shall hear every
word. My father brought sheep
into the Peace River county. The
|cattlemen picked on him to make
an example of. He went out un-
armed one night to take care of
the horses. My mother heard two
shots. He didn't come back. She
went to look for him. He was
lying under the corral gate with a
hole smashed through his jaw by
a rifle bullet that tore his head
half off. I was born one night six
months after that. My mother died
that night. That" he said, ''is
what made me a 'gunman.' Not
whisky-not women--not cards
just what you've heard. And I'll
tell you something else you may
tell the men that call me a gun
man. The man that shot down my
father at his corral gate haven't
found yet. I expect to find him.
For ten years I've been getting
ready to find him. He is here
in these mountains. don't even
know his name. But IL / live, I'll
finHhim. After 1 get through with
that man" - he hesitated-"they
may call me whatever they like.
You want me out of the Cap" de