THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 99, 4 August 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

FOR LOVE OF A MAN. A STORY OF A SACRIFICE. Joe Trumbull arose from the pokertable in the rear of Einstein's sample! room with a hot word on his tongue, i At the same instant, Gambler lgou ilip-' ped the cards to the floor, tipped back' -his chair with a crash, and pulled the trigger. The little chunk of lead tore a a mole away from Joe's red neck. Trumbull s .revolver sent a return messenger across the beer-stained cloth, and thereafter a small hole.might be traced directly through Gambler Igou's person. Two or three idlers had beheld the crooked play, the accusation, and the shooting, without particular animation. You saw what happened men," said Joe, tucking his gun away. 'Til bid you good-bye. Kindly remember the details of this little incident, in case you are ever called upon to discuss it." The men nodded. Joe Trumbull mounted his pony, and rode away. The dead body was covered with a potato-rack, and soon after the authorities of Maumee made an enquiry. ' In spite of allegations to the contrary, homicide is regarded as a serious offence in Nevada. Mr. TrumbulJ had killed three men during the course of his tempestuous career, and it was his very correct notion that continued absence on his part had it seven or eight ways on a studied legal defence, of his act. He rode to a railway, caught a freight train, and his old haunts knew him no more. Six months later the town of Cat Eye took him in unknowing; and there he settled, into a homelike life, with the Widow Barnes to mend his socks and the widow's daughter to cook for him. ■ Cat Eye is a small and silent .community in the western foothills of ithe Sierras, containing a saloon, three stores, and a dozen unpainted huts. A score of deserted mines lie scattered about the neighborhood: and, for lack of edifying and instructive amusement, Joe Trum°bull prospected among long-dead leads. He had never come across anything more valuable than cast-off clothing and arusty bucket, but the pursuit occupied his mind until such time as he began to devote thought to the widow's daughter.

"I'm a kind of bum, Alice," he told the girl, "and I find I'm falling in love with you, so maybe you'd better know something about me. ' The reason I'm dallying here in this pleasing village is not because I crave the picturesque, but on account of a sudden death that took place some time ago. I shot a. dirty card-thief in Nevada, and that's why I'm here."

j "What made you kill him?" Alice asked. ■ . '

"Had to. He shot two seconds ahead of me, but a little mite unsteady." "Why don't you go back and tell them that?" ' . "Because my name looks' bad on their books. It has been necessary, in the past, for me to. turn two other jobs of somewhat similar nature, and my hunch is that the game looks a trifle monotonous on the third play. Does all thia make any difference te you?" ' ' "Not any," Allie'replied. "If. you were fighting and not murdering, it makes no difference at all." '

"My word ain't much, but you can take it that they were all straight fights. If I hadn't got the other fellow, 1 wouldn't be here now."

"Let's talk about something pleasing,' said Allie Barnes.

"We will. x Are you free to have me fall in love iwdth you?" Jop,asked, plac--1 ing his hand on her shoulder and looking •into her eyes. Joe took her in his arms.

"We hereby start with a clean sheet," he said gravely. "I've got folks in the CEast, and some day they may slip me a bunch of change—not that they'll do so willingly, but because they can't tote it along into the next world when they go."

Joe heard about the man of -whom Allie had spoken, and his smile was grim. At the Bulldog saloon he listened to a long story about a tall stranger whose pony used to stand before the door of tiie Widow Barnes—a lanky, handsome fellow with a waving brown moustache. One day the pony trotted away, and the stranger came back no more. Perhaps Allie could tell him more if she wanted to, they suggested at the Bulldog; and their conversation trailed on into details that brought a sudden oath from Joe's lips and his gun from his pocket. ■ 'He spoke to Allie again. "I told you there was a man, Joe, and I told you it was all over. You've got to take my word for it, because I ain't going into details. What's over is over. If you love me, you'll be satisfied with that; and if you don't, it don't matter." 'Months slipped by, and the subject never came up, either in the home oi Widow Barnes or at the Bulldog. The few times Joe had discovered an unreasoning jealousy tugging at his heart he had driven it from him angrily. "I'm a fool," he was wont to mutter. "She loves me, because she says and because she shows it."

One moist, hot evening he ' walked slowly into Cat Eye in the gathering dusk, tired and worn after a fruitless day's work. His rifle hung despondently in the hollow of his arm, and the gleam 1 of light in the Widow Barnes' window cheered him. Then he stopped in the middle of the Toad, with a catch in his breath, and stared ahead of him fixedly. A pony was tied to the'gate before the house, his head hanging until it grazed the ground. "It's him!" he muttered. "He's -comeback to her!"

While he stood like a graven statue, in the white dust, ifche door of the cottage swung open, and two figures appeared. One of them wias Allie. The other was a tall, lanky man. They were laughing gaily, and Allie's hand rested confidently in the arm of the tall man.

Joe slipped into the bush. His mouth was dry, and his breath was rushing through his throat in hard gasps. The two hesitated a moment at the

gate, and they turned down the white road. As they approached the man in the bush, Joe saw Allie's companion was remarkably handsome, and that his moustache was long and wavy. He was leaning toward the girl and looking at her fondly.

Slowly Joe's rifle tipped forward till the barrel rested upon a stout Ywig. Lying behind it, Joe Trumbull stared at the two like a fascinated snake. His finger was close to the trigger. Allie and the man passed twenty feet away. They were speaking in low tones, punctuated with an occasional laugh. The riile barrel swung slowly in a broad circle and followed the retreating pair. Without warning, the tall stranger turned the girl toward him, and leaning over, kissed her. Allie struggled an instant and then lay quiet in his arms. When the arms released her again, Allie screamed and crumpled up like an empty sack. The body of the tall man toppled and fell upon her. Above the growth of bush two white circles of smoke curled away from the barrel of Joe Trumbull's rifle and mingled with the increasing tiusk. A moment later Trumbull crawled from beneath the shelte;, threw the empty shells out of his gun, imd sauntered down the road. The pony at the gate greeted him with lifted ears, and he rubbed by its flank as he passed.

Inside the Widow Barnes' home, the clock was ticking, and the fumes of the evening meal drifted in from the kitchen. Joe lighted, a lamp and. called aloud. No response coming from the kitchen he started forward, nnd bis eye fell upon a slip of white p'apjr hanging from a pin on the mantelpiece. He plucked it off land held it close to the light. It was in Allie's writing; Dear Joe,—PU be back as soon as 1 can. I am taking a walk with your friend, the stierifr from Nevada. He stopped to get a drink, and I found out who ie was. He wants to take you back for shooting that man. Tell me where you go, and go quick, for 1 won't 'be able to keep the sheriff away long. Allie. P.S.—Take thfo'pony. .