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his homestead also, as he had gone in debt to acquire the threshing outfit, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that the threshing was all off, or to make a hundred mile move over into the Palouse away from the rattlesnake infested region.

The poor homesteader begged him to stay and not leave, as they could not possibly get another machine in there. Gibson could not help but consider his pleadings in the face of a hundred mile pull overland and possibly only a very short run after he arrived there. Try as he could he could conceive of no way in which to overcome the rattlers. That night he dared not lie down in clear comfortable straw, as is the custom of harvest hands all through the West, for fear of the dread reptiles. He sat and pondered the question over and over, and considered different plans and schemes, only to reject them all as useless or impracticable.

The homesteaders of the surrounding neighborhood had called on him and offered to double the price per sack for threshing if he would only remain with them. This was indeed a great incentive to reach a solution of the question. All once he thought of something that brought back his hopes with the speed of a bullet. Was it possible, could it be practicable? Yes, snakes were susceptible to charms. He would do it. Old Hopalong Rattlesnake and his buffalo horn could undoubtedly help in dispensing with the peril. He decided at once to leave for the Indian country early in the morning. Old Hopalong, why had he not thought of him before?

IV

Early morning, an hour before sunup-and the sun rises early in the sage brush country during the summer months-found Gibson astride a pinto saddle pony and headed for the Coeur d'Alene Reservation. A cross-country ride was very exhilarating at this time of the morning before the breeze had begun to stir the cool, fragrant atmosphere, and while the dew faintly

sparkled in the stunted sagebrush.

A hungry coyote who was still prowling about in the lonesomeness, heard the hoofbeats of the horse and set up his weird ki-yi-ing, and skulked off over a ridge to secrete himself somewhere before the sun's rays streaked the east.

An all day jog through the hot sun brought Gibson out of the nauseating aridness and rattlesnake infested region up into the cooler altitude of the Reservation and the calm of the scattered pine trees and luxuriant bunchgrass which grew here in abundance. He was not long in seeking out Hopalong's tepee, and found the old siwash at home. After relating his predicament, Hopalong gave a grunt of comprehension and said: "Lots um rattlesnakes; no count um, me catch um, skookum alright." "Will you go back to the Big Bend with me in the morning, Hopalong? I will pay you well," said Gibson, and Hopalong gave a grunting nod of assent.

The next morning after a cool, refreshing night's sleep under the pine trees, the only pleasant and satisfying night's rest Gibson had experienced for some time, they headed for the sagebrush, Gibson ahead and Hopalong following on his cayuse. "Medicine man buffalo horn," said Hopalong, "me fix um rattlesnake; you run um threshing machine, no have trouble." All day they journeyed thus, Gibson pushing enthusiastically ahead and the Indian stolidly following, showing only a morbid interest occasionally when spoken to. He rode bending forward, and his cayuse ambled aimlessly along with its head listlessly drooping. Once in a while it bit off a mouthful of the unapposite sage leaves or stopped at an occasional bunch of grass, when Hopalong would mutter under his breath, and the cayuse would prick up its ears and jog nonchalently on. Evidently neither cayuse or rider relished being abroad in the hot, simmering prairie, and portrayed marked unresemblance to the other rider who was pushing energetically ahead.

Arriving at their destination late that night, Gibson was utterly exhausted, and climbed into a bundle wagon and slept until late next day. When he awoke the next morning the sun had been up an hour, likewise Hopalong, who was suspiciously inspecting the threshing machine. "Good morning, Hopalong," said Gibson, feeling relieved after a good night's rest. "What do you think of the outfit?" "Skookum paleface," replied Hopalong, eyeing the engine furtively; "Injun no catch um high up fire. Great Spirit no like Injun any more. Great Spirit catch um white man's wheat and thresh um. Injun no good any more." "What about the rattlesnakes?" Gibson anxiously inquired. "To-night," replied Hopalong, "when sun go down me catch um.”

That night the crew all assembled, speculatively anxious to see what Hopalong was going to do. Some of the homesteaders had gathered around hoping against hope that this strange Indian could do something to alleviate their predicament. But they entertained grave fears of doubt as to his power to help them in this particular instance.

No sooner had the bright harvest moon risen and flooded the broad expanse with its silvery rays than Hopalong got out his old buffalo horn and sent forth a weird, enchanting strain, barbaric in its moving cadences that carried on the still night air for miles. He continued for about ten minutes a droning, muffled tone, now shrill and now barely audible. Presently, just as some of the crew began to have misgivings, there was a faintly audible

commotion all about. The wheat stubble began to jerk and oscillate in the moonlight, and those assembled perceived snakes-hundreds of them and thousands, slipping through the wheat stubble in a vivid effectual stream, as if they were following old Lucifer himself.

Hopalong marched ahead of the reptiles in a triumphant stride, winding the unmusical buffalo horn now wild and shrill, and now deep and dolorous. Snakes, and nothing but snakes, passed in endless stream all in one direction long after Hopalong had disappeared over a distant hill. The tone of the weird buffalo horn continued growing fainter and fainter, until finally it died out altogether.

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The next morning the crew was up bright and early, and the threshing machine was humming merrily away again. Not a rattler was to be seen. The only evidence of reptiles was the rumpled up wheat stubble and the millions of criss-crossing and tangled trails in the sand and volcanic ash, while a certain lake two miles distant at the foot of a high bluff was literally alive with rattlesnakes.

Gibson Sterling stood upon the deck of the engine and mentally prospected on what his profits would amount to at twice the price originally agreed upon. A lone Indian rode off through the sagebrush toward the rising sun, glancing now and then at the long slopes of wheat fields on either side, seeing nothing spectacular in what he had accomplished the night before in Owen Wister's land of the God awful Big Bend.

T

The Face in the Locket

By Billee Glynn

HE blue bay-roll in the harbor of Papeete lolled shoreward with a somnolent note. The steamer Mariposa had just come to dock, and while she still strained testily at her cables, the passengers hurried down the gangplank to where natives and Chinamen waited to handle their luggage. A mixed group of citizens, representing all the degrees of population of Papette, watched the proceedings interestedly. And among the smiling throng, like tropical roses dusky with dreams, shone the faces and burning eyes of the French Creoles-none the less attractive that in instances she showed an admixture of native blood. Catching a glance from a pair of such eyes, the valet of Mr. Robert McVey missed his footing on the gangway and almost fell. His master, who was behind him, reprimanded him sharply. He was a stout man, somewhere between fifty or sixty years of age, and wearing a stern, irritable expression. The head of one of the largest manufacturing concerns in San Francisco, he had come to Tahiti for his health, and was in a nervous state bordering on panic. Consequently, little things affected him. He had a reputation for having always disliked women individually and socially. Never having been there before, he had dreamt of Tahiti as a paradise of rest, where only was the murmur of the sea and every personality became as a shell on the shore, and neither business nor sex menaced the joy of drifting. Robert McVey was out for one quiet time with himself, and to the extent, that he even illtreated his lackey because for reasons of convenience he had been obliged to take him along. Since the lackey hap

pened to be a sturdy, Irish block, and was infinitely capable of taking care of himself, sympathy in the matter is not necessary, however.

sea.

The principal "hotera," or hotel, received McVey cordially. He found upstair apartments overlooking the And the narrow streets of Papeete appealed to him as lanes down which he might wander in peace. His first meal, agreeing comfortably with his badgered stomach, adduced in him a feeling of delightful languor. Then down in the lobby of the hotel-it was but a small place-the manager, Monsieur Durant, introduced him to Madame Gordon. In Tahiti, hospitality is not confined to any particular form. Besides, the manufacturer always carried the look of a man of importance, and, as his host guessed, might be staying in Papeete for some time, where every newcomer is worth at least investigation. The lady had been calling on Madame Durant, and the two women crossed the lobby together. Then it was that Monsieur Durant had brought McVey over to them.

Madame Gordon, a lithe, flower-like creature, received him almost shyly. She was gowned in mauve silk, deliciously clinging, and seemed made up of dreaming fires. Her eyes were like those beautiful twilights in which a man remembers his loves. And her olive complexion had the perfect finish of a pansy petal. By the side of Madame Durant, who was rather coarse and fat, she shone like a delicately nurtured dove in comparison with an overfed field-sparrow.

The introductions had scarcely been made when a tall, broad-shouldered young man, clad in white duck, swung open the hotel door and came up to

the group smiling. While McVey caught his breath and drew slightly away, the three received him heartily. And the hand of Madame Gordon went out to him caressingly.

"I happened to be passing," he explained to her, "and saw that I was just in time to take you home with me, dear."

She gave him a look of love, fondling his arm with her hand. Then, with instinctive courtesy, she turned quickly. "Meet Mr. McVey, Arnold," she said. "My husband, sir."

The manufacturer, who had been about to withdraw, turned suddenly with a stern look. At the confrontation the blood swept Arnold Gordon's face till it seemed to dye the blonde locks of his nestling hair, and his mouth opened in an unutterable gasp. Fortunately the others were regarding the manufacturer. Then, instantly, he controlled himself, his gray eyes narrowing into a glance of tempered steel.

"I am glad to meet you," he articulated, without extending his hand. "Will you be long in Papeete ?"

"For some little time, I believe. It seems to me that I have seen you before."

The other met the scarcely repressed irony without flinching. "I have been in business in the island for the last five years. We do not accumulate wealth here, but we find happiness.

"I suppose the climate agrees with you better than might be the case in some other places."

"Possibly!" There was a restraint in the word which communicated itself to the other.

"I will be in my own apartment up till nine o'clock this evening," he said. "There is a business project I have in mind, and it strikes me that, perhaps, you could help me with it."

In anywhere but lazy, loving Papeete the conversation might have struck the curiosity of the company. But in that climate even curiosity is too much of an effort. Certain that he had made himself understood, McVey withdrew, bowing with a peculiar smile to an invitation from Madame

Gordon to attend a dance at her house the following night. Monsieur Durant shrugged his French shoulders as he disappeared.

"It is so often the tragedy of the rich," he said, "that no amount of money can buy good manners."

In his own quarters, with the lattice doors flung open to the sea air, the manufacturer walked up and down, frowning. He had come to Tahiti for health and pleasure, and now this criminal had to show himself. Very well, he would be prosecuted with all the more vengeance. He had always vowed that he would get him sometime, and, at last, after five years, he had succeeded. It might prove good business, too—the restoration of ten thousand dollars to the firm. Anyway an embezzler would be brought to justice. The American consul would be only too glad to lend his assistance in the matter.

He turned to his valet arranging the writing table. "Martin, I expect a gentleman here to see me before eight o'clock. Wake me when he comes. I am going to take a siesta."

And he went to sleep haunted by the eyes of Madame Gordon, eyes that somehow belonged to the divine tenderness of life, the lost springtime beneath the drifted snow of years. At the age of fifty-six Robert McVey was still a bachelor.

It was half-past eight when he awoke and his valet informed him that no one had called. Without waiting to eat anything, he dressed quickly, and, with his valet in attendance, left the hotel. He had nervous visions of his man having already escaped. The house in which the Gordons lived he found quite a distance down the principal street. Like most of the habitations of Papeete, it was a wooden, onestory structure, but covering, with a certain endeavor at picturesqueness, considerable ground space. Flowers and vines lent decoration to it, and a bamboo veranda ran entirely around, giving it the appearance of a cup and saucer. The dreaming moonlight of the clear, Tahitian night steeped it in

a strange mellow quaintness. Ordering his valet to wait for him outside, the manufacturer knocked harshly at the door. It was opened by Madame Gordon, who recognized him, it seemed, with something of tremulous apprehension. Yet her greeting was charming.

"I came to see your husband, Madame. My man will wait for me without."

Gordon himself sauntered leisurely into the hall. "Come into the parlor," he said, coolly.

McVey's temper rose at his easy manner and tone. He followed him, swinging his shoulders angrily, and, at the other's repeated suggestion, seated himself in a bamboo rocker.

Gordon glanced at his wife. "You have an engagement this evening with Mrs. Scott across the street, have you not, dear?"

"That is so," she acquiesced. And she left the room, drawing the portieres carefully behind her.

Her husband paused to listen for a moment to make sure that she was gone, then he turned to his companion, who had by this time worked himself into somewhat of a sweat. "You have something to say to me?" he suggested.

The other could scarcely command himself. "To say to you, to say to you," he reiterated in a rage. "I have something to do with you. You are going back with me to California and to San Quentin-yes, as sure as you are going to Hell."

Arnold Gordon smiled. "It might, perhaps, please me to go to Hell first."

McVey was regarding him with unappeased anger. "I waited for you at the hotel, and you did not put in an appearance," he flung, savagely.

"I trusted to your business discretion in looking me up."

detectives they were when they did not get you."

The younger man corrected him quietly. "I am known here as Arnold Gordon. In San Francisco it was George. My full Christian name is George Arnold." He held out his cigar case. "Will you have a cigar?"

McVey thrust it aside with a wave of his hand. "I would sooner smoke with the devil," he declared. "What I want to know is, if you can make restitution of the ten thousand dollars you embezzled in the position of cashier to my company when you left San Francisco five years ago?"

"I lost it on the horse-races in Mexico," explained the other, biting his cigar with a look of regret. "My copra business here I have built up through my own industry."

McVey sneered. "Fancied that you would be perfectly safe here always, eh? Married, too. Was the lady in on the game, also?"

Gordon rose to his feet leisurely, laying his cigar on the table. He pointed to a brace of pistols hanging on the wall. "You are speaking of my wife, sir," he emphasized, "who to me is the sweetest and finest woman in the world. I met her here in Tahiti and married her. She knows nothing of my misdeeds. I love her with a love that must ever be the soul of me, a love as high and deep as the sky and the sea outside. If you dare to speak ill of her, I will kill you like a dog." There was something finer than springtime in his eyes as he spoke, a sweep to his voice that had the precision of a blade.

His companion was cowed in spite of himself. He gaped at him, then motioned him to sit down. "I have nothing to say against your wife," he stated, more quietly. "I think she is beautiful. But you—you are a scoundrel."

The manufacturer leaned toward "I am not particular as to your opinhim, measuring him hotly with his ion on that score. My own idea is glance. "You are the typical villain," that we stand about quits. My father, he pronounced. "Your insolence is in- also in your employ, was shot to death finite. Why, you have not even by burglars while protecting your changed your name. A poor job-lot of money-box. He saved it for you, but

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