Life — September 16, 1915 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

volley. Other officers came from the house to stare upward. On came the monoplane. “A French flyer!” cried one. It was over head. It paused in its flight, circled, A tiny black thing hurtled down, The side wall of Han Schmidt's house vanished. In a moment more there was no house—only a heap of smoking ruins. Amid fused wires a thing that had been a man, in the uniform of a general, dragged itself, shrieking, till it died. “TEESE “The smoke!” cried an officer, “It was a signal! Headquarters was be- trayed!" “Fools!” cried Hans Schmidt, as they turned on him. ‘ The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a French chassepét! Vive la France! Vive Alsace—jamais blus Elsasst Vive la rep——" A revolver spat in his face. But as he lay his staring eyes were turned to the west, to a monoplane that was flying home to France. Nemesis ‘By Mary Clark HE Little White Mare stirred uneasily in the narrow stall, and shifted her weight from one three-legged balance to another, There was no room to lie down, and the warm stench of ankle-deep manure could not rise as far as the small opening where, occasionally, penctrated a flickering beam from the arc-light at the corner. The day’s work had been hard, and supper inadequate; in her dreams there came the taste of a carrot, succulent, crunchy, tender, but solid; a carrot such as the little boy used to give her— the little boy who lived on the long street of the hard pavement and the many car-tracks, That was in the days when Estevan and she had car- ried fruit and vegetables in the old cart, and, pleasantly, had stopped before many houses, often three and four times in a block. By her association-memory (the only memory psychologists allow her kind), she recognized that street when- ever she crossed it in her journeys,—the Street of the Carrots, But, latterly, they carried other things in the cart, heavy jangly things, queer, knobby sacks that Estevan gathered hast- ily, a few at a time, at strange hours, in quiet places. In night journeys to dark alleys and courtyards, the loads were transferred to other Mexicans, who counted small jingling pieces into Este- van's ready palm. Nowadays there were no carrots, no rest under spreading cot- tonwoods and chinaberries. V Estevan there never had been anything to asso- ciate but work and blows. Such is life— far too little dirty water from a dirty Pail; roughage for food, with, now and then, a grudging heap of cheapest grain; a galling harness; a filthy stall; work— never-ending work; a child and a carrot the only memory of a kindness! El Paso she knew, not as you know it,—its mountain vistas, its blocks of sub- stantial homes and pleasant bungalows, but as her half-starved, rickety old frame knew it: hard, paved streets that hurt her feet; dreadful, unpaved ones where she stumbled in the ruts and mud or choked with dust; the mountain winds of winter; the wicked summer gusts, that gather up adjacent Mexico and blow it to the Mesa, only, a few days later, to resume the burden and with it madly assail Mt. Franklin; the cruel summer heat when, afternoon long, Estevan dozed in the cool ‘dobe, while she stood in the pitiless glare, harnessed and helpless, envious of the paltry, flapping shadow cast by the red rag that floated over the abarroteria, telling, though she neither knew nor cared, that carne, fresh carne, was for sale that day, And heat, glare, red rag, dreadful streets of Chihuahuita, their memory-association was—flies, millions, billions, _ black, busy, buzzing, biting flies. Now, even in her sleep, she heard them, Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzed mightily. Estevan's heavy slap fell on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of the stall and into harness, Past dark rows of ‘dobes and one-storied shops— jog—jog; jolt—jolt over rough tracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered “'Spero” brought the Little White Mare to an obedient halt in the black shadow of a freight car. Men waited there for Estevan; there were signs and whispers. What business of hers! She lowered her head to nose a pile of sacks; one was torn; cautiously she smelled, then licked it. Heavenly! a substance rough like salt, that turned magically on one’s tongue to smooth, slippery, ineffable sweetness! Sugar it was, a car-load, sent from dangerous Mexico to the safety of these United States. In the deep shadow, the thieves skillfully shifted the sacks from the car to Estevan, who swung them into his cart. Something amiss! The men muttered 505 to each other, crouched, dropped from cart to car, disappeared in the black be- yond, Industriously the Little White Mare nuzzled the torn burlap, into whose folds the delightful fodder was receding. Dazzling light—big men,—the other kind of men than Estevan,—everywhere,— in the cart,—around it,—at her head. “Vamoosed! Hell take it!" was the verdict. “And will you look who's here,” cried the biggest, turning his torch on the laden cart. “Lord love you, it’s a haul for a Packard truck! They sure got this old bonebag anchored! Must be a ton or two on that wagon, Well, men, shift most of this to the patrol, seal the car, and run in this outfit as evidence.” The Little White Mare stood at ease, contented, warm and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbed back of her ear in a delightful and unaccus- tomed way. The patrol whirled away. “All right, Bourke,” they called, “ you can escort the corpse. " “Look out for the speed-cop, bo. four blocks to the boneyard. Bourke swung into the driver's se: clucked comfortably and, always obedient, the Little White Mare turned from the freight yard into the dusty road. A strange creature, this man with the big, soft hands—no sharp, jerking rein, the whip, forgotten; maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with, al- ways, a crucler lash. For all animals Bourke had a tender friendliness, and the sight of the scarred, decrepit back patiently jogging between It’s + the shafts irritated him, as did the nery- ous wince the old mare gave when he joggled the whip-handle in the broken socket. The idea grew in grim delecta- bility that she might, of her own habi deliver her tormentor to the law. “Now's your chance to get even, old girl,” he muttered; then louder, “take me to him—casa—sige casa!” Reins flat on her back, a full stomach and an easy mind, that strange associa- tion-memory said to the Little White Mare that it was time to be at home, in the dirty stall, with the empty manger and the sleeping flies. Jog, jog, past the sleeping ‘dobes, past the shops, into the familiar alley—home, at last! Bourke was gone; from the house be- yond the stable partition came Estevan's voice, high, whining, pleading. A shrill whistle outside; other voices; the whir of the patrol speeding town- ward; silence; sleep. The Little White Mare was avenged.