he'll never git thet land while theer's a drop o' blood in this arm, an' a charge o' shot in this gun." The old man straightened himself up and his eyes flashed. "I hev held it," he continued, "fer many a year, an' I xin hold it yet."

The figure that for a moment had somehing of grandeur in it shrunk again, and vas only "old man Belleville." After glancng at the tables, he turned and went out.

II.

A long road stretches its dusty length be›re us, and is lost over yonder rise of ground. Deep ruts mark the line of heavy wheels at have passed over it, grinding rock and irth into an impalpable red powder, that zily follows the wake of the passing wagon id covers the traveler like a shirt of Nessus. he foothills loom up beyond the level retch of country, scarce two miles away, id through the breaks in their massive front e white caps of the Sierra flash and glitter. ere, near the road, is a rude cabin, and ar it, to the left, a neat dwelling-house st built. Two miles away, to the right and ar the line of the hills, a large white house th green blinds pleasantly peeps out from hind a clump of valley oaks, complacentsurveying the land round about with an of ownership. Where are we? Where, leed, but in front of the disputed league the Moreños grant-in front of the land ered by the Belleville claim. That rude is the fortress that the old man with his conquerable spirit has held against rich I poor alike. That neat frame dwelling he sign manual of the new proprietor, os Nixon, late carpenter; and yonder house is the home of Dirk Hasbrouck. os Nixon himself stands in front of his se, talking to his wife who leans in the rway, and a little girl five or six years old laying around.

Yes, Mary," he says, "the old man came again last night. He can't keep away 1 the place. He'll be here off and on ne dies."

"He don't seem to be quite right in his head."

"He's failin' fast. His soul was in the place, an' they both went together."

"Poor old fellow. He won't last long." "He thinks he will. He talks of goin' off prospectin' and of settlin' in a new country as though he was on'y twenty instead o' seventy. He was sayin' on'y last week that he wasn't fit for anything but a trapper or a prospector, for he never felt comfortable without a gun in his hand, an' guns are goin out o' fashion round here. 'There's too many Yankees comin' in," he says, 'an' they crowd out the old settlers like me. I'm a-goin' to a new country.""

"Did you go to see him this morning?" asked Mrs. Nixon, anxiously. "Perhaps we could do something for him.”

"Yes," replied her husband, in his slow, steady manner. "He was putterin' round with his breakfast. His eyes are bloodshot, an' I guess he's been drinkin' heavy. He wouldn't let me do anything for him. He told me a bit of news, though. Dirk Hasbrouck got back from 'Frisco last night.”

"Dirk Hasbrouck! Why, he's been gone so long I've most forgotten his name. It's most three months, ain't it?"

"It's more 'n that. He went the middle of June, an' this is the 3rd of October. But there he comes now," said Amos Nixon, pointing up the road.

There, indeed, was the dejected horse drawing after him the dilapidated buggy, and in the buggy was the millionaire. Mrs. Nixon beat a hasty retreat, but her husband stood his ground.

"Mornin', mornin', neighbor," cried Hasbrouck in his hearty, cheery voice, pulling up the dejected horse. "Whoa, there! Look as though you'd come to stay. You ain't sold your town house, have you? It'll come handy in about a month.”

Nixon walked out to the gate with his hands in his pockets, and his chin looked remarkably square.

"Good morning, Mr. Hasbrouck," he said slowly. "You're right, sir. I have come to I feel so sorry for him," replied his wife. stay, an' I mean to do it."

house now, that Skinner has been sending along for the last three months. But they don't worry me. Lord! I'm used to 'em They roll off me like so much water off duck.”

"Lord bless you," said the millionaire bez-carcases, an' hocus-pocuses up at the cheerily, "they all say that. Belleville's the on'y one that's stayed on my land, though; an' he's better'n a watch dog. Lord! Nixon, it would 'a' done your heart good to see the way he used to warm them squatters. Oh, by the bye, if you want to see some Mexicans travel, you come down to the other end o' the lot to-morrow." And he pointed to a group of red-tiled adobes some two miles away.

"I don't care about seein' it," said Nixon. "Sho! you needn't be squeamish," said Dirk Hasbrouck compassionately. "You might git pints agin next month. I guess we'll make the fur fly. They ain't on the go, an' they'll need a little persuadin'. But Lord! they ain't to blame for that-its on'y natural."

"Well," said Nixon slowly and obstinately "you don't come to the point. Are yo going to leave it to the law or not?" "Sho! you ain't a-goin' to take my jok to heart, are you? Bless your soul, I ain a goin to treat you like you was a Grease You can come an' see them trot for the fu o' the thing. But you're a white man, an you'll be put out by the sheriff. That square, ain't it?"

Nixon admitted that it was, but the pa ticular shape did not seem to have any effe on his determined look.

"I mean to hold the place," he added. "Sho! Nixon, if I was to let you have you couldn't hold it agin the squatters. Yo ain't Belleville. You ain't been in the cou try long enough to get your eye-teeth cut."

"See here, Mr. Hasbrouck," said Nixon in his slow voice, hammering out his sentences, and looking frankly in Hasbrouck's face. "We two are at odds about this piece o' land. I think I've got a fair and square claim to it. Like enough, you think you've got the same. Now, we've appealed this thing to the law, an' I want to let the law decide without any bloodshed." Dirk Hasbrouck laughed a hearty, cheery boy," he said, slapping his pocket, “so laugh, and leaned back in his seat.

"Lord bless you, Nixon, you ain't got your eye-teeth cut yet, have you? Yes, we've appealed to the law; now, when's the law goin' to decide? The case is in the United States District Court now. How long is it goin' to stay there? Mebbe you'll get a judgment next month, an' mebbe you won't. Most likely you won't. But s'pose you get a judgment agin me to-morrow; then I appeal to the S'preme Court. The S'preme Court has got cases on the docket for four years ahead. That's law, my boy."

The millionaire laughed again in his hearty way, and as Nixon was still a picture of stub

bornness he continued:

"Now, you see law is a long business, an' law costs money. You ain't rich enough to afford such luxuries, Nixon. You ought to know something about it a'ready. There's a big stack of caveats, an' supenoys, an' ha

Nixon muttered his doubts about the nee of eye-teeth in this particular case, and Dir Hasbrouck gave another hearty laugh.

"It's coin that talks in this country, m

reckon myself a pretty good speaker. Bu I must be getting along into town. Get u there! You wont forget to come down an see the Greasers' house warmin' to-morrow Get up! Two o'clock, sharp. Bye-bye Thus dividing his talk between the dejecte horse and the uncompromising Nixon, chirruped his way down the long road, as was soon lost in a cloud of red dust tha slowly traveled along and finally disappeare over the rise of ground.

Nixon stood at the gate for some minutes his eyes following the retreating dust-clou that Dirk Hasbrouck, like a modern Olym pian god, had disappeared in. His ma feeling was anger.

"He needn't 'a said anything," muttered he, "about his money an' my empty pockets I could knock his head off for his impidence. if he is a rich man, an' I ain't. By the Lar Harry, I'll hold the place against him an

all the sheriffs he can buy up in the county. I ain't got much packin' to do.
If I ain't Belleville, I'll make somebody sor-
ry ́I ain't.”

His habitual self-control got the mastery over his anger in a moment, and he turned back to work at the odd jobs about the house, and to amuse himself as he had done for many a day, by planning what he would do with the place next year. As he walked around the house to his workshop, Belleville came out of his cabin and stood before him, leaning forward on his shot-gun as though he could not bear to part with it for an instant.

"He's failin' fast," thought Nixon, as he ooked on the figure, bent more than ever. The matted gray beard had turned grayer vithin the last few months, and spread over is breast. The iron-gray locks still held ast to some streaks of their youthful color, nd fell over his broad shoulders. But there as a yellow pallor over his face, and the urple mark showed out stronger than ever. "Ye bin a talkin' with Dirk Hasbrouck?" e said slowly and with difficulty. "Yes."

I'll go next

day." The old man slung his gun over his shoulder, and started toward the hills. "I'll jess drop in an' tell the Greasers ter look out fer visiters to-morrer, and I'll fetch ye in a mess o' quail, ef ye like."

Nixon watched the shambling figure walking slowly toward the hills, and then went about his work with the thought that the old man's days were numbered.

The sun dipped over toward the west, got very confused and red in the face with the smoke of the valley, and finally in high dudgeon disappeared altogether. The landscape gradually lost its colors in a deepening shade of blue. The trees scattered here and there were so many darker patches on a dark ground. The few mountain peaks to be seen above and beyond their foothills glowed like immense beacon-fires after night was over the valley, and finally sank below the surface of the dark sea, whose rising waves had covered all below them. The long, dusty road seemed to end in mystery, and the two deep ruts smoothed themselves out

"Ye ain't a goin' t' give it up, be ye?" he till they were seen no more. sked anxiously.

"Not while I'm alive," answered Nixon,
e determined expression coming back to
s face.

"Thet's right, thet's right," mumbled the
d man, and his hands, that showed the blue
ins standing out in bold relief on them,
itched the gun with a firmer hold. "Nev
give up." Then he laughed a low, strange
igh as though the words pleased him. "I'm
join' off," he said after a long silence. "I'm
in' prospectin' over in Nevaddy."
"When ?" asked Nixon, thinking as he
›ked at him that he would never get there.
"I dono,” replied the old man absently;
t's late fer thish year, but I guess I'll go
ɔty soon, so's to be on the ground. Dirk
d somethin' about firin' them Greasers to
rrer, didn't he?"

'Yes," said Nixon, smiling grimly at the
ollection. "He said they were going' to
vel at two o'clock.”

A rising wind swept down in fitful gusts from the mountains, and sighed mournfully through the oaks as though they were great Æolian harps; and the branches of the tree that reached over Amos Nixon's house seemed, with the rising and falling gusts, to be crooning a wild melody, such as the sibyls of old might have sung; but there were none to know or heed its tale of coming good or ill.

Amos Nixon had watched the gathering darkness, making the most of the short California twilight from his chair on the porch, where he contentedly smoked his pipe, at peace with himself and wishing that he might be with the world. As it became darker and the stars twinkled out in brightness, the pipe glowed and twinkled in rivalry as he drew in the puffs of smoke. The rising wind was sending the leaves eddying and swirling around him as he rose to go in. His wife was standing at the door, holding the little

'Jesso. I guess I'll stay over to the show. girl by the hand.

"Come in, Amos," she said in a low, frightened voice. "I am afraid to-night." "Why, Mary," he said cheerily, "you're getting nervous. There's nothing to harm us here."

"I never felt so before," she said, as he put his arm around her and walked into the house. "But the wind moans so strangely to-night, as it goes through the branches over

us.

Sometimes it sounds as though it was an organ in some great church, and I was listening to it playing for some one that was dead. And then it seems as if it were little Minnie crying for me, but she is by my side. And then," she hesitated a moment, and then went on shyly, "then sometimes it sounds as though it were the baby that died. You don't think me foolish, Amos?" she asked anxiously.

"Why, no, Mary, of course not. You're only nervous. The moving out here has been too much for you, and the place is strange. You'll get used to it in time."

"I never felt so before," she said, speaking low as though she were afraid of disturb ing some one, and turning the light up as they sat down. "And we have been here over a week now."

get over it if we've to live out here. Come Minnie, it's 'most nine o'clock, and way past your bed-time. Kiss papa, and come with me." She rose and took the child into the bedroom.

When his wife had gone out, Nixon began to feel some of that same nervousness that she had shown. There was a vague feeling of coming ill that had settled over his hearty spirit. He listened intently for sounds, but even the moaning of the wind had stopped. He got up and went to the windows that faced on the road. The darkness outside was in such contrast to the lighted room that he could make out nothing, as he shaded the lamp with his hand, but a star or two twinkling in the sky; and watching and lis tening thus, first at one window and then at the other, he got into a very tremble of nervousness.

"Pooh!" he said, as he realized what he was doing, "I'm getting nervous as a woman, and he went back to his chair by the table He took up a paper and drew the ligh nearer to him, resolved to steady his mind by reading.

Suddenly, as he did so, a shot rang out the stillness. His heart gave a great leap Nixon took the little girl on his lap, while and he dropped the paper and sat still a mo his wife busied herself with sewing. "There!" cried Mrs. Nixon in a terrified voice. "What's that!"

"Only the wind," replied her husband. "No, there was something beside the wind," she said. "I heard a step outside."

Nixon started up, and went to the door. He could hear no sound but the rustling leaves as they were blown about by the wind. He walked around the house, but found nothing but the door of his workshop swinging to and fro. He shut and fastened it, thinking as he did so that he had done the same thing once before that night.

As he came back into the house he reported the result of his investigation, and quieted his wife with the idea that she had heard only the swinging door and had imagined it a footstep.

"I am getting nervous, I'm sure," she said. "I never was so before, and I must

ment. There was no sound that he could hear but the loud beating of his own pulse Recovering himself in a moment, he sprang to the door and opened it. He listened in tently, but there was absolute stillness out side. The wind had died down till not a leaf stirred. The silence would have been terrifying, if he had not heard within the house the mother and child prattling togeth er. He stood there some minutes undecid ed what to do. The silence, the twinkling stars, the feeling of danger, the dark vold that gradually took shape as his eyes became accustomed to it, awed him, yet restored his self-possession.

He began to reason on the occurrence that seemed now to have been a freak of the inagination, and tried to explain it away. His wife had evidently not heard it. Perhaps was unreal-a fancy bred by his nervousness He had turned to go back into the host

"Nixon! Nixon!" shouted the unknown ning.
der, leaping to the ground.

"What is it?" asked Nixon, hurriedly.
"For God's sake bring a light. There's
man hurt out here," replied the horseman,
inning up to the doorstep.

"Who?" asked Nixon, taking time to no
e that the speaker was Slick Williams, and
arting back into the house for a lantern.
"I don't know," was the reply.
od's sake, be quick!"

Face downward in the road, there lay what had been a living man-now but the dust in which it lay.

"Stone dead," whispered Williams, placing his hand over the heart, and speaking as though he feared to disturb the dead.

They turned the body over, and the light of the lantern fell full on its face.

"My God!" cried Nixon, starting back. "It's Dirk Hasbrouck!" [CONCLUDED IN NEXT NUMBER.]

SOME SOUTHERN MESAS.