Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 209, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 September 1914 — HoW LITTLE WE KNOW [ARTICLE]

HoW LITTLE WE KNOW

By JOE H. RANSON.

(Copyright.) I have often thought of what might have happened if Sam Spencer had not found me when he did. Destiny toiled along that dustdimmed flat, stooped, wearied, drymouthed, without doubt cursing the thoughtless being who led her thus for afield. Destiny stood by, perhaps, atop the burning plain, scornful, unwhlmpering. faithful. Picture tne dear lady, older than the Mlle whose profile beckoned like the jfroets of departed joys from the horison, dogging the steps of a thirst-mad nan, through dust-choked miles, until the weak being sprawled himself upon the sands to die. The memory of that mad, heartless, withering eon of fire is to me. of the haziness of the never-to-be-forgotten nightmare, a smear of flame—endless, hellish miles —a throbbing fountain of blood beneath my skull —myself a mindless, writhing automaton. I flung the canteen from me with a thick curse in the afternoon of the tint day. It was so hot that it burned my hands. The liquid that it gave me, its last sip, was heated to the point of Mood. I cursed the canteen and the mad gods that had led me into this pit of burning. Then I became the automaton and ctmply moved, without joy, pain, hate, fear, my head hung between my shoulders low to my breast, my arms hung listless at my sides, my legs moving forward each in its turn without my will, my back curved, a creeping, shiv«ring, grotesquely weeping thing, like unto a distorted spirit, moving with Infinite labor endless through the fevered acres of the damned. It is all a smear, a Horror hid in some recess of my brain, mercifully stripped of its nauseating details. The last concrete, tangible memory is of cursing the empty, senseless, scorching canteen as I hurled it from me. A man held me in his arms, pouring water upon my face, into my baked lips. It was like a fine, improbable dream. The dream passed, and I went once more into unconsciousness, any mad brain still fighting on through lhe fire. When I opened my eyes, with reaeon for the first time replacing the tangled phantasmagoria of horror, they rested upon the Interior of a log but, with skins clinging to the walls and a small, square window looking out upon the placid ranges. I wag alone. I noticed my hand upon the coverlet and' tried to raise It. The thing was.pale, bloodless, almost transparent. I could see each finger’s bone. An old scar on the back of the hand looked seared and old and whitened, like an aberration on a long-bleached bone. The hand refused to obey me. It fluttered, rose an inch and dropped back feebly upon the sheet / Then a man came in. He had been ■sharpening a hatchet outside, and he bad it in his hand when he sat down by the bedside. He told me that his name was Sam Spencer, and that I had been his guest five weeks. He said it was a hundred and fifty miles to a doctor. He had pulled me through alone. He had found me lying as dead on the sand and brought me to his hut and fought with the death that already claimed me. He told me of the fever that had burned me, of the fiendfob visions that had Strength came slowly at first, then, tn the quick mountain air, with leaps and bounds. A fortnight saw me walking about the cabin, doing light work. A month and I was stronger than I had been in my life. Spencer was a miner. He had prospected ten years. He had had some success, enough to keep his own faith and that of the men who grub-staked him. But he never realized his dreams. He had lived the ten years mostly alone, in the hills, sometimes six months without sight of human visage. When I had fully regained my strength, Sam Spencer made me a proposition. My company for three months had spoiled him, he said, for solitude. He had worked alone before, so that when the strike came it might be solely his. Now, he felt differently. He wanted a partner. We would share fortune. I agreed. Then one night he came in and laid a specimen on the table. I paid no particular attention at first. Then I saw his face and picked up the specimen. There was no doubt about it What be. had tolled for and hoped for and bad never doubted had come at last The vein passed all our hopes, discounted our fondest dreams. The experts who came threw up their hands in wonder. The discovery marked a new era. It meant new towns, new people, a new empire. It yneant new feVfer in men’s blood for the yellow coquette of the fiflls. It meant love, joy, hate, envy, magnanimity, charity, philanthropy, murder. To Sam Spencer it meant the realization of a dream, the proof of his optimism. Beyond the mere affording of possibility to do certain things, I think the extravagance of his sudden wealth utterly escaped him. In his great-heartedness he Insisted that we share and share alike. I was on the point of refusing whan I looked into his eyes. I agreed. My fortune was made, but I lingered

In the West It was Spencer. I had grown to love the man, for the bigness of him, for the wonderful something that lifted him out of and aWay from the material. Superficially he was not attractive, a silent stern, wordless man of the hills. But I had lived in the same room with him two years. I had eaten his bread,’ hoped the same hope, dreamed, though not so perfectly, the same dream.

Spencer came into my room In the hotel one night, and I could see. that he had something to say. An odd kind of embarrassment had come upon him and he hedged and countered and hemmed and hawed and talked of commonplaces for a half-hour. At last he told me. It was part of the dream. It was, I think, the mother of the dream. •* Ten years before, in a small town in one of the middle Western states, Sam Spencer had loved a girl. They had seen each other occasionally, had walked together in the wonderfur spring of youth, had met at church, at parties. There {had been very little opportunity for talk, had not the youth been so sorely tongue-tied in the presence of the little great god. That part of it was common enough. That was why I wondered about the woman. Saia Spencer had come to the seeking of the golden fleece wherewith to line his nest. Ten years he had sought it with a shrine in his heart on which the fire had never died. Ten years he had labored and hoped and dreamed and worshiped the goddess of his sacrifice in secret. And now the fleece was found, the dream stood ready for fulfillment It made my blood cold to think of what the years might have done. I was with him when he posted the letter which told of his winning a fortune. It was like participating In some holy rite. It meant so much to Spencer, it was so much a part of him, the urge, I am now quite sure, of all his endeavors.

I remember the stun, the sudden, sickening sink that came over me when the telegram was thrust before my eyes, telling of the accident in the Oro pass. > Spencer had gone for a quick trip to Boise, expecting to return in two days. We had parted with joyful anticipations, having in common that great secret which draws all men into a common kinship. He would return, and together we would read the reply of the woman. Foolish, bearded children. Ten years may do many things besides wrest a fortune from the unwilling hills. Ten .years! Sam Spencer was dead. The Oro pass had taken 20 lives, of which his was one. It seemed to me that Destiny had indeed turned pessimist, who would lead a man to the door of realization after ten years’ toil, and bolt it even as he touched the lintel. It seemed unspeakably ironical, this last bit of fate’s sarcasm. I felt that upon me rested the duty of putting the last touch to the picture now turned tragic, into the secrets Of whose building I had been initiated. I a reply from the girl. The days oßiwded on. I took charge of Spencer’s estate, following the simple instructions of his will.

The weeks went by. I began to wonder If the girl— i * Then came the first word I had had from Alice Dale. She wrote me of the small doings of her intimate life, the little impersonal personalities a woman writes. Then came this: Tell me how these Western men feel. I received a letter the other day from one who has been away ten years, hunting his fortune in gold-fields. He had just succeeded and wrote to me here. I had forgotten him, and by racking my memory could remember nothing excepting that he had red cheeks and brown eyes. The letter was written with a lead pencil, three sheets, the greater part of which was devoted to telling of his success. Then In the coolest manner In the world he offered to share it with me. Not one sentimental word, mind you, unless the superscription could be termed that. I really was angry at first. Then I read the letter a great many times, trying to decide whether I should answer it or not. : I forgot to say that In a postscript he placed the characteristic dollar-mark of the West upon the letter by saying that If I would come, answer at once and he would send me ticket and expense money. Then this: Now tell me, what feeling prompted the letter. Not love, because, as I remember, the affair was very ordinary, nothing beyond walking home of afternoons. I am not asking your advice, understand. lam merely asking out of curiosity. They surely must look at life from a different view-point than people do who live near civilization. t I wanted to laugh, wildly, grimly, bitterly. How little do men know! How wise is Destiny after all!