The Argosy, September 1915 — page 206: what you’re looking at

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

420 THE isolation and wildness of so many years for them. When the woman had retired, Shefford and. the men talked a while. Then Joe Lake rose to stretch his big frame. “ Friends, reckon I’m all in,” he said. “ Good night.” In passing, he laid a heavy hand on Shefford’s shoulder. “Well, you got out,’ he remarked. “T’ve only a queer notion how. But some one beside an Indian and a rustler guided you out! Be good to the girl. Good-by, pard!” Shefford grasped the big hand, and in the emotion of the moment did not catch the significance of Joe’s last words. Later, Shefford stepped outside into the starlight for a few moments’ quiet walk and thought before he went to ‘bed. It was a white night. The coyotes were yelping. The stars shone steadfast, bright, cold. Nas Ta Bega stalked out of the shad- ow of the house and joined Shefford. They walked in silence. Shefford’s heart was too full for utterance, and the In- dian seldom spoke at any time. When Shefford was ready to go in, Nas Ta Bega extended his hand. ‘ Good-by — bi-nai!” he said strange- ly, using English and Navajo in what Shefford supposed to be merely a good night. ° The starlight shone full upon the dark, inscrutable face of the Indian. Shefford bade him good night, and then watched him stride away in the silver gloom. But next morning Shefford under- stood. Nas Ta Bega and Joe Lake were gone. It was a shock to Shefford. Yet what could he have said to either? Joe had shirked saying good-by to him and Fay. And the Indian had gone out of Shefford’s life as he had come into it. What these two men represented in Shefford’s uplift was too great for the ARGOSY. present to define, but they and the desert that had developed them had taught him the meaning of life. He might fail often, since failure was the lot of his kind; but could he ever fail again in faith in man or God, while he had mind to remem- ber the Indian and the rustler ? Still, though he placed them on a noble height and loved them well, there would always abide with him a sorrow for Joe Lake, and a sleepless and eternal regret for that Indian on his lonely cedar slope — with the spirits of his vanishing race calling him. Willow Springs appeared to be a lively place that morning. Presbrey was gay, and his sweet-faced wife was excited. The teamsters were a jolly, whistling lot. And the lean mustangs kicked and bit at each other. The trader had brought out two light wagons for the trip, and after the manner of desert men, desired to start at sunrise. Far across the Painted Desert towered the San Francisco peaks, black-timbered, blue-cafioned, purple-hazed, with white snow, like the clouds, around their sum- mits. Jane Withersteen looked at the ra- diant Fay and lived again in her happi- ness. And at last excitement had been communicated to the old gunman. “Shore we're goin’ to live with Fay an’ John, an’ be near Venters an’ Bess, an’ see the blacks again, Jane. An’ Ven- ters will tell you,.as he did me, how Wrangle run Black Star off his legs! ” All connected with that early start was sweet, sad, hopeful. And so they rode away from Willow Springs, through the green fields of al- falfa and cottonwood, down the valley, with its smoking hogans and whistling mustangs and scarlet-blanketed Indians, and out upon the bare, ridgy, colorful desert toward the rosy sunrise. THE END. Don’t fail to read in the October ARGOSY the opening instalment of a three-part tale THE DIAMOND NECKLACE BY FRED JACKSON There will be eleven chapters of it, and for a mystery yarn we’ll match it up against anything that has been turned out this year. Get the October ARGosy on the 15th of Septem- of a jewel story by any means. It’s not the same old thing ber, read these eleven chapters of the first instalment, and be convinced. COPMICLOOOKS (E@)