The Tomahawk. [volume] (White Earth, Becker County, Minn.) 1903-192?, 1925-07-02

dim outline of the door,
traced in rays shining uncertainty
through?
l turned over and resOlutely decid-
ed to sleep-tO take no more notice
Of this sOul-disturbing thing, but to
pass the remaining hours of the night
in sunderland awake at morning to
find all but an invention Of my fancy.
Imaginary sheep fitted through my
brain - one hundred-two-and-
1t was still shining. What horror, to
realize that that which had been but
an idle fancy had strengthened its
bold on my mind, and now presented
itself in the guise of an actual pos
sibility.
The feeling of responsibility was the
worst; no one else could know Of that
light streaming around the cracks Of
the closed door-none other Of the
sleeping campers knew that White
mores candle still burned, after every
one else was at rest, while a quiet, an
ominous Stiffness, reigned in that room
opening out Of mine. Reason MUIR
INJURED HE Is sleeping" but Imagina-
ton quickly answered, There Is a
chance-a chance that mortal disease
had seized him, and that he lay there
dead or dying" Fancy the morning,
finding him lying there so still, and
the cold statement Of the doctor, hur-
riedly summoned from a neighboring
Camp. HE might have been saved, had
any one known Of this in time" And
IL was the only one who knew.
Our parting had been commonplace
enough. After we came up to bed-a
noisy troop, excited by an evening
around the card-table-he passed
through my room into his own, lighted
candle in hand. A few casual remarks,
and the communicating door was
closed. After rapid disrobing,
blew out my guttering candle and
turned in. A train Of vague thought
was interrupted by a glance at his
door, between which and the jamb
light shone. Thinking nothing of this,
| closed my eyes for sleep. Then,
found myself staring at it with
vague anxiety, at which I laughed !;
absurd, the mans reading in bed. An
other attempt to sleep, light nap,
and again my unwilling eyes were at
tracted toward the door. It drew
them, this vague shining; every at
tempt at sleep was vain; always,
awoke, staring at that light. Grad
ually saner thoughts deserted me; the
influence of the murky night crept
over me, and my uniformed dread as
sumed a definite shape-a haunting
fear that would not be reasoned with,
an absurd fear, may be, but one that
would not be laughed away.
The lightning was brighter now; 1t
lighted up all the bare little room.
The scant furniture stood there as
plainly as by day; my clothes, which
had seen many an Adirondack storm,
lay carelessly tossed across a chair !;
my gun, guilty of the life of many
deer, stood in the corner. All this.
knew rather than saw. never look
around during flash Of lightning. 1t
might by its excessive brilliancy re-
veal Notwithstanding that 1t
were better not to see.
How deeply are we imbued with the
dread of ridicule! l have seen a dog
cringe and stink away, when he had
mistaken his master for a stranger
him. So should l feel, If l obeyed the
impulse that was strong in me, and
opened the dividing door, to find
Whitmore calmly reading. And yet,
that chance
Once more turned away from the
haunting glimmer; once more faced
the dim square Of window, which was
ever and anon rendered more distinct
by flashes Of distant lightning.
Idly, my mind reverted to the scene
Of the evening: the log room, It's great
windows open to catch any lingering
breeze; in the center, the table under
its huge hanging lamp. Eager faces
all around ibid Whitmores look
paler than the rest? Accounted for
surely by his mornings fatiguing
drive into camp. Eager hands shut
fling cards-did Whitmore's tremble
more than the others? Surely, the
result Of an extended row that after
noon. How stands my Garfield score?
One hundred more. and out of debt
a black ten now, and a red seven
With start, l sat up in bed; ire
sistibly, my eyes turned in the direc-
ton Of the door. The light still shone.
How long had slept? Some time
certainly, for the lightning now shone
in at the window with greater fire.
quency; and now, through the heavy
air, came the distant, continuous rum
BILE Of an approaching storm. And
still Whitmore read on, or-oh, the
chance. the awful possibility! And
no one knew Of II but !.
The breeze came more strongly
through the window. lifting the light
curtain gently, blowing 1t softly into
the room hate curtain blowing
that way at night, there Is always
the suggestion that a white hand is
pushing 1t in; always the feeling that