All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 105: what you’re looking at

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

MIDNIGHT OF her, to ride her down, to possess her, seemed the easiest, most attainable things. But Barnquist had too deep a knowledge of what that would mean in Texas, then, to attempt it. Berenice, a daughter of the soil, the pure, the good granddaughter of a native son, poor in purse, was yet a god- dess—a being far, far above an upstart Barnquist, and was not to be soiled thus by violence. But he might wait, plan, con- trive. Like lightning his thoughts leaped the chasm of the possibilities; he saw himself maftied to her, accepted as his hard-fisted - father had not been, the old cattle-rustling reputation lost under the mantle of Bere- nice’s good name, Ox Bow the center of real influence that his father had been compelled to buy when he could get it at all. “IT guess,” he said to himself, riding quietly homeward soon afterward, “ the Chaparral Cock will see less and less o’ me. Some women are not wo’th what they cost.”’ Homing quietly, Berenice put out the pony in the Wickson corral. She went into the house, intent upon procuring a bite of something cold, in order not to put Ma Wickson to any trouble. No one was in the kitchen, but on the steps outside a rumble of conversation told of Pa Wickson out there talking to—Burlane. The door was ajar. She smiled to think that Burlane was there because—well, because he might see her on some pretext. She found some cold pones and bacon and ate with the best relish in days. She finished with a happy feeling of well-being and sat quietly. Soon in came Pa Wickson and went by her to bed. She could see the glow of Ed’s pipe through the jar of the door; the fragrance of the smoke came to her. She got up quietly and pushed the door open, as if intent to go out. Then she drew. back. ‘“Qh, is some one there?” ‘Yes, Miss Ber’nice,” came Burlane’s deep, musical bass. THE RANGES. 95 ¢¢ Oh.”’ She did not come out. She go in. ‘“ Puff, puff, puff!” from Ed. The pipe glowed, the red of it lighting up his strong. calm features. He did not look over his shoulder at her. ‘““ Ahem!” She moved her feet, edged way out, let the door slam to. ‘ Puff, puff, puff!” from Ed. ‘““ Ahem!” she repeated. She stepped to the edge of the little stoop of squared logs and slumped down, dangling her feet, as it were. Her heels kept time to the rhythm of his on the log ends. ‘If, Mr. Burlane-—” with serious inflec- tion. “Mr. Ed,” he suggested tentatively. “Well, then, Mr. Ed!” ; “Yes?” non-committally. “Oh, dear, men are so dense—” ‘ Eh?”—turning toward her. “Well, Midnight—”’ “Wow!” He bounced: up. ‘ What about him? Do you know anything—” “Oh, if it were about me—’’ “But do you know” ‘Oh, fudget!” She got up. ‘He accompanied her eagerly to the door. ‘“ Please, Miss Ber’nice,” he pleaded. And then she relented. In five minutes he was in possession of her story and had made a plan for ascer- taining the truth of the case. ‘You'll never know, Miss Ber’nice,”’ he said with deep feeling, ‘‘ how much you’ve done for me, if it turns out that I get th’ horse through your information. He sure means a lot to me, Midnight does.” ‘“T think a lot of him, too—Mr. Ed,” she returned, dodging past him into the house. ‘“ And now, good night.” ‘Good night, Miss Ber’nice. mighty good to me.”’ And long after she was gone, Ed stood, head bared, in worship of the very passing of her presence. ‘Then he went out to the street, whistling. But neither did You been .TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don’t forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. comiclboolk C©