White Bluffs spokesman. [volume] (White Bluffs, Wash.) 1907-1938, 1926-07-02

to go when they found hi mout. AL
ways, always, the moths ate the err
mine.
The frosts of autumn paint the
mountains with their widest brushes
in October; the great hills then sug-
gest the coming to life of some over
Jealous Brobdingnagian landscape
artists canvas, so vivid are they in
their riots of colors. 1t was in
October, that melancholy but beauti
full month, that Lon Buckmaster went
to the logging camp on Tumbling
Fork to ask for job. He had tried
all the other outfits. This was his
last chance and he was desperate
about it. If they wouldn't have him
here-well he'd laid his plans ahead
Of that.
Buckmaster arrived at the Tumb-
ling Fork headquarters on sunny
Sunday afternoon The rollicking
timberjacks had just left off their
horseplay in the clearing to gather
in the company's commissary, where
the superintendent himself was dis
glasses of clear new corn whisky
that had never been near to the dis
grace of revenue stamp-the laws
long arm had not yet felt it's way
very strongly into the wilderness
about Tumbling Fork, which was on
the other side of Ironhead Mountain
from Satan's Kitchen.
A silence fell over the roysterers
as the outcast stepped into the COM
missary doorway. Every eye was
hard upon that tall and lean, hickory
muscled young man in the steel
calked boots, clay-colored corduroys,
blue shirt and broad felt hat Of the
logging country.
Then somebody whispered uneasily
Its Bear Creek Buckmaster!"
Bear Creek Buckmaster broke the
ollOACO WAlCu lOllOWSu LlldG WHlopeI
He hadn't used his tongue much
while in the Army and he still spoke
largely in his native dialect. But he
never drawled anything now
| "Listen here, super" he said. "Lis-
ten to me. l want to talk to We.
AS we already know, mebbe, I'm Lon
Buckmaster. But l amt never done
nobody no harm like they say have.
want job here. I'll do We lots o.
work. I'll do We more work an any
body else in this outfit | only want
a chanst to show We. Super, will We
| gi' me chanst?"
1t was a long speech for him to
make. The superintendent of the
Tumbling Fork logging operations
looked toward sawed-off shotgun
that lay on shelf behind the counter
and swallowed a glass of whisky.
II couldn't do it, Lon," he an
swered. "Fd lose my own job eff /
did. You know how it is. But don't
blame me! Pm sorry TO- We, Lon
honest. It's a shame, shore. But l
CANT help it any"
| A leaden, still minute went by. The
tickings Of the little nickel-plated
commissary clock sounded to Buck
master like the hammering of boil
ermaker. Buckmaster went ashen
under his sunburn. The devil in him
twisted his lips in curious, careless
smile. His last chance was gone.
"The only thing left" he said,
measuredly, deliberately, sis TO- me
to live up to the reputation all O. you
good peple has saddled on me,
whether 1 wanted it or not. ALI O.
you good, whisky-guzzlin', lynn,
swearin', gamblin', back-stabbin' folks
says I'm a robber and killer and a
thief and a desperaydo. l amt a
goin' to disapp'int we no longer. Look
out, super-duck, there-I was horned
into this world with q gun in both
hands and Cain-mark on my forrad
duck there super!"
| There was BANG and a BANG
and a BANG-BANG! The tinkle of
broken glass, the acrid scent of
! powder smoke. Before the echo of
the last shot had died away Bear
Creek Buckmaster stood alone in the
commissary Then he laughed to
himself, reloaded the four empty
Z, chambers of his new Colt, took up a
jug of the superintendent stampless
new whisky, dashed it through
showcase and went out. AS he
walked by the boarding house he sent
two bullets crashing through four
corner windows of. that big, rough
building. He didn't see the hair of
mans head as he passed.
A mile down Tumbling Fork Lon
Buckmaster dropped to stone and
began to draw bitter honey, as it
were, from one of the most poison
GUS woods in the garden of life-self-