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go on to Laredo. I've got some friends thar, and Mister Carlton'll help me. I'll come out all right."

Disappointment clouded the small face under the huge Stetson. "Aw, Gotch!"

"Hit's best," reiterated the cowboy. "I don't want to be a-runnin' from the sheriff."

"Did yuh quarrel with daddy, Gotch ?"

"Naw. I was a-tellin' him as how I chased thet greaser Pinto off the range. Pinto killed yer daddy, lil' gal. He sneaked up behind me and grabbed my gun an shot him a-fore I knowed what had happened. He meant the last two shots fer me, but they went wild. One o' them just grazed my scalp heah. Wish he'd a-got me 'stead o' yer daddy. But thet's how things allers happen. The Lord A'Mighty seems to want the good 'uns and lets the wuthless critters stay heah."

"What's Ben Sidney got ag'in yuh?" queried the girl.

"Thet's what I don't know. We never did hit hit off, somehow. I don't know why, but Sidney and me wasn't cut out to be friends. I wasn't surprised when he swore he saw me shoot yer daddy. 'Course Spike knowed he'd be foreman with me out o' the way, so he ups and swars along with Ben. But I never done hit, lil' gal. Dennis, up yonder, knows I never done hit. Poor Dennis-"

Coyote saw a big tear roll down the cow-puncher's cheek.

"Gotch," she whispered, her lips trembling.

"Honey, I—__"

Somehow their hands met-the big rough ones closed over the little soft

ones.

The next instant there came a metallic click and a drawling voice: "Well, I'm d―d!"

(To be continued.)

THE FOG FLURRY

Veering wind and filming sky-
O'er the dune the piper's cry;
Foaming wave and flying sand—
Whir of wings above the strand.

Up the canyons narrow, deep,
Demon gales exulting sweep,
Shaking from their lawless wings.
Diamond mists in gusty flings.

Strayed beyond his rocky home

Beetling o'er the ocean's foam,

Buffeted above, below,

Climbs a gull on pinions slow.

On the blurring line of sky,
Swaying low and reaching high,
Many a eucalyptus plume

Tosses in the whirling spume.

ADA PEARL CROUCH.

J

The Capture of El Capitan

By Eleanor F. Stevenson

UAN VALERA was loafing again. For several days he worked steadily, and now, propped against the white-washed wall of the old adobe church which fronts the messy little plaza in the heart of Juarez, he was pondering lazily as to the most agreeable way of disposing of the accumulated pesos that were burning a hole in his trousers pocket.

So many and varied were the means which his native town offered for getting rid of one's money that Juan was rather at a loss now to decide among them.

A heterogenous swarm of gambling contrivances, born of the present fiesta season, lined the Calle Toro not far from the plaza, and opposite Juan a corner saloon flaunted a glaring poster announcing a series of cock fights for that afternoon in the cock pit near the bull ring; besides, there was always Keno.

Juan was very partial to Keno. The thrill of hearing the caller proclaim the number needed to complete his card and the cheery sound of the little electric bell, as it announced to the other players that he had "kenoed" and thereby won the proceeds of all the cards less the percentage which went to the house, were pleasures such as, in Juan's opinion, none of the other gambling devices could offer. With out more ado, therefore, he set out down the Calle Commercia in the direction of his favorite Keno palace.

He had not gone far when he was hailed by Manuel Gomez. Manuel, too, was for the moment a bloated capitalist, and, like Juan, was seeking some way of putting his wealth into circulation.

"Come along with me," said Juan.

"We'll go halves if either of us kenoes."

But Manuel had another plan. "Let us take in the races," he suggested. “A twenty-to-one shot won the fourth race yesterday, and we might strike something like that. Besides, the Monk is to run to-day for the first time this season."

The trolley to the race track came banging around the corner as he spoke, and Juan, Keno forgotten in the prospect of seeing the much advertised Monk and the hope of multiplying his pesos on a possible long shot, climbed on the car, where he found a seat between a florid-faced, raven-moustached man in a checked suit and a highly perfumed and much bedecked member of the opposite sex who murmured something derogatory about "these fresh Mexicans" as Juan squeezed in.

The jockeys were weighing in after the first race when Juan and Manuel reached the track, and the two lost no time in seeking the book-maker's stall. Here Juan, whose early education, like that of most Mexican youths of his class, had failed to "take," stood attentively by while his more accomplished companion laboriously spelled out the list of horses entered for the next race, together with their estimated chances to win, place or show. Among the entries was "Flying Footsteps," a thirty-to-one shot. On this horse, not from any confidence instilled by the name, the significance of which neither understood, but merely because of the tremendous odds, the two risked half of their pesos. The wisdom of withholding a part of their funds was soon apparent, for Flying Footsteps, utterly belying her name, was hopelessly outclassed from the start, and ambled in

with an undisputed hold on last place. The third race carried no long shots, but El Capitan in the fourth was booked at twenty-five-to-one. Manuel reasoning that, as the fourth race had been lucky for a long shot Tuesday, it could hardly be so the following day, determined to wait for the next, and walked off to join an acquaintance whom he had spied near the Judges' stand. Juan, however, arriving by the same process of reasoning at exactly the opposite conclusion, placed his remaining pesos in the hand of one of the bookmakers.

"El Capitan to win," he said.

The man glanced at him sharply as he took the money, but handed him his card without comment, and Juan, stationing himself in a convenient place near the corner of the barrier, bent his whole attention on the race that was then taking place.

El Capitan was a long limbed, rangy looking horse, whose work on the track up to the present was uniformly poor. He was ridden by a singularly ill-favored jockey in a bright red satin blouse and cap. A mile race was scheduled, and as the course was a mile and an eighth in length, the start took place at a distance from the judges' stand. To Juan, watching intently from his place at the barrier, the six horses. seemed to get away in a bunch, which gradually opened out as they sped down the opposite side of the track. The brilliant red blouse of El Capitan's rider enabled him to distinguish that horse, which appeared to be holding a position discomfortingly near the rear. As they swept on around the course, however, Juan observed to his delight that El Capitan was gradually creeping forward. Now he was nosing the fourth horse; now he had shouldered the third out of position; and as they neared Juan, he was running neck and neck with the second, while the favorite, a sorrel mare with a two-twelve record, was laboring a scant length to the front.

The finish was in sight when El Capitan's rider, raising his whip for the first time, brought it down with

cruel vigor on the shoulders of his steed.

The great beast answered with a lunge that outdistanced the second horse and brought him to the shoulder of the leader. Another magnificent effort and they were neck and neck. A frenzy of shouts burst from the stand. Others besides Juan had backed the long shot and shrill cheers mingled with hoarse cries of disappointment as El Capitan lunged under the wire a nose in advance of the favorite.

Without waiting for a sight of the Monk, who was to run in the next race, Juan cashed in and hurriedly quitted the track. He was uneasy lest Manuel, who was ignorant of his companion's good fortune, should learn of it and claim the half which Juan had proposed in connection with Keno, and which he feared Manuel might assume to have been tacitly extended to their venture at the track.

"To any person apprehending the said Cuco, popularly known as El Capitan, the Alcalde of Juarez will pay the sum of five hundred pesos." El Capitan! Juan, stopping for a moment to ascertain the meaning of the crowd gathered before the municipal building in the Calle Commercia, started as the name fell on his ears. Like the rest of his fellow townsmen, he had a wholesome fear of the notorious bandit who, according to popular opinion, was only less formidable than the dreaded Zapata himself, and in ordinary circumstances he would not have given the capture of the desperado a second thought. But his success at the track threw matters in a new light. Like all Mexicans, Juan believed religiously in signs and omens, and the pesos in his pocket bore substantial evidence to his success with the name El Capitan. Accordingly, even before the voice of the reader of the proclamation had died away, his resolution was taken. He, Juan Valera, would, single handed, pursue and capture El Capitan.

The redoubtable bandit, who had won for himself this sobriquet, although of Mexican parentage, was a native of Texas and had received some

little education in the public schools of that State. Sentenced to a prison term at eighteen for some petty robbery, he had escaped from custody and had fled to the mountains of Northern Mexico. There he had joined a band of desperadoes, among whom his cunning and audacity had finally won for him the position of chief with the title "The Captain." Still a young man and endowed with a bold sort of beauty, he was inordinately vain and fond of bedecking himself in the most extravagant manner. His rich sombreros were rumored to have cost fabulous sums, his embroidered jackets were marvels of workmanship, and his gay sashes were the finest and glossiest of silk. Proud of his fluent English, he employed that language on every possible occasion, even in intercourse with his band, falling back on his mother tongue, for which he seemed to have a strange aversion, only when absolutely necessary.

The bandits who had formerly confined their activities to the capture of a few sheep or cattle and the waylaying of an occasional traveler had, since the accession of El Capitan, increased their depredations to an alarming extent. All attempts at rounding up the band as a whole having come to nothing, the authorities of Juarez had decided to direct their efforts towards the apprehension of El Capitan himself. It was known that in his various daring operations he was often separated from his followers, and his capture might be reasonably supposed if not to disrupt the band completely, at least to limit its depredations to their old proportions. Such, then, was the task which Juan Valera, solely on the strength of a winning horse, proposed to accomplish.

It was not long after dawn the next morning when Juan Valera, armed with his battered rifle, stole out of the sleeping town and took the trail which winds up the mountain side. At the last moment he had felt some misgivings about setting out alone, and had half decided to solicit the services of one or more of his friends, but the

thought of having to divide the five hundred pesos whetted his courage and fortified him in his determination to capture his prey single handed. He had formed no plan of campaign and had no clue to El Capitan's whereabouts except that he was rumored to have been recently lurking among the mountains near Juarez; but with a sublime reliance on the resources of his own luck, he climbed resolutely up the steep trail, holding his gun at an angle which, in event of its being discharged by a chance stumble, would inevitably have blown his brains out.

For several hours Juan wandered about, clambering over obstacles and occasionally dodging behind a convenient rock at the sound of imaginary footsteps. The sun was high now, and it had grown uncomfortably warm. Juan, who had neglected to bring a flask, was consumed with thirst, while his courage and his belief in his luck alike were slowly evaporating. Suddenly the confused sound of voices made him start, and peering cautiously over a huge rock, a sight met his eyes which sent the blood in a sudden rush to his heart.

On the slope of the mountain some distance away was a band of Mexi'cans. They were picturesquely dressed and fully armed. armed. There seemed to be a great many of them, but Juan's eyes, sweeping the party in a hasty glance, fastened themselves instinctively on a bold looking, wildly handsome man in a particularly elegant sombrero, velvet jacket and crimson sash. Even at that distance Juan could not fail to verify the description of El Capitan. The flowing mustache, the rich costume-there could be no doubt of his identity, but how could one man armed only with a rusty rifle hope to intimidate an entire band of desperadoes and capture their leader?

The blur of voices grew fainter and another hasty peep apprized Juan that the band was moving away in the opposite direction. Only one thought remained with him-to get back to Juarez in safety and with all possible

speed. However, he dared not risk discovery by setting out immediately, and for some time longer he crouched in his hiding place.

At length, judging that the bandits must be quite out of sight and hearing over the top of the ridge, he was rising cautiously to his feet when the crunch of approaching footsteps sent him cowering back again. A moment late, an imposing figure advanced along the trail, and with a thrill Juan recognized the object of his quest. Except for a pearl-handled revolver stuck jauntily in his red sash, he was unarmed, and, walking slowly with eyes fastened on the ground as if searching for something he did not for the instant observe the crouching form in the shadow of the big rock.

It was a critical moment, but Juan's star was again in the ascendant. At sight of the desperado alone before him, all his confidence returned in a flash, and the next instant the newcomer found himself gazing into the muzzle of a battered but deadly looking rifle held in the hands of a determined little Mexican.

"No talk," commanded Juan, who out of deference for El Capitan's known preference for that language, drew on his scanty stock of English for this admonition.

His injunction was answered by a fierce torrent of eloquence, the context of which was quite beyond Juan's comprehension.

"No talk," he repeated, this time with so significant a movement of his rifle that the warning was heeded.

Without further protest, the captive set off down the trail indicated by Juan, while that favorite of fortune brought up the rear, picturing to himself his triumphal entry into Juarez. and pondering various agreeable ways of disposing of five hundred pesos.

*

*

*

The manager of the "Star Moving Picture Company" was lounging comfortably in the lobby of the Del Norte Hotel in El Paso late that same afternoon when he was accosted by Stacy, his "heavy."

"Seen anything of Mack lately, Murray?"

"No," returned the manager, carelessly, "I haven't seen him since I left you fellows on the other side this morning. I suppose he's up in his room pawing over those weeds he's so dippy about."

"No, he isn't," said the other. "I've just come from there. Fact is, Murray, I'm a little uneasy about Mack. You see, he left the crowd over on the Mexican side soon after you did this morning. Said he wanted to go back to hunt for some flowers he'd seen and wanted for his collection. Nobody seems to have seen him since."

morning.

"Oh, he'll turn up all right," asserted the manager, easily. "Mack's quite able to take care of himself, although why a first class movie actor wants to drag a lot of dried flowers and weeds around the country with him is more than I can make out."

"Well, I'm not so sure about his turning up," responded Stacy, ignoring the manager's deprecating allusion to the hobby of his leading man. "You remember Emory told us this morning that a gang of desperadoes was loose in the mountains across the river and warned us not to go too far. Of course, Mack wouldn't consider a little thing like a desperado when there was a specimen in question, but it's my belief they've got him."

A shrill cry of "'Phone call, Mr, Murray," cut short the manager's reply, and a trifle alarmed at Stacy's gloomy forebodings, he hurried off to answer the call.

When he emerged from the booth a few minutes later all sign of alarm had completely vanished, and he was grinning broadly.

"That's going to be some film, that Mexican one, Stacy," he asserted complacently. "That costumer I got hold of certainly knows his business."

"Yes, yes," returned Stacy impapatiently, "but about Mack?"

"It's him I was talking to," said the manager. "The bandits didn't find him, but that get-up of his was SO dashed realistic that he's been roped

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