Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 February 1915 — Page 2

The Land of Broken Promises

A Stirring Story of the Mexican Revolution

A story of border Mexico, vivid. Intense, ouch as has never before been written, is this one of American adventurers Into the land of manana. Texan, mining engineer, Spanish senor and senorita, peon, Indian, crowd its chapters with clear-cut word pictures of business, adventure and love, against a somber background of wretched armies marching and countermarching across a land racked by revolution and without a savior.

CHAPTER I. The BJow-rotUng winter's sun rose •acridly, far to the south, riding up •from behind the saw-toothed Sierras <of Mexico to throw a silvery halo on •Oadsden. the border city. A hundred miles erf desert lay in its path—a waste of broken ridges, dry arroyos, and sandy plains—and then suddenly, as Ilf by magic, the city rose gleaming in (the sun. It was a big city, for the West, and tswarming with traffic and men. Its broad main street, lined with brick' buildings and throbbing with automobiles. ran from the railroad straight to the south until, at a line, it stopped (short and was lost in the desert. That line which marked the sudden (end of growth and progress was the (border of the United States; the desert (was Mexico. And the difference was |not in the land, but in the government. As the morning air grew warm and (the hoar frost dripped down from the I roofs the idlers of the town crept (forth, leaving chill lodgings and stale (saloons for the street corners and the (eon. Against the dead wall of a big store (tiie Mexicans gathered in shivering groups, their blankets wrapped around (their necks and their brown ankles (bare to the wind. On another corner is bunch of cowboys stood clannishly aloof, eying the passing crowd for others of their kind. in this dun stream which flowed (under the morning sun there were minlas men, with high-laced boots and (bulging pockets; gray beards, with the (gossip of the town in their cheeks; hoboes, still wearing their eastern (caps and still rustling for a quarter to isat on; somber-eyed refugees and solidlers erf fortune from Mexico —but Adlers all. and each seeking his class and kind. If any women passed that way they (walked fast, looking neither to the (right nor to the left; for they, too, beAng so few, missed their class and (kind. Gadsden had become a city of men. hugeriimbed and powerful and with a guesting look in their eyes; a city of •dventurers gathered from the ends of (the world. A common calamity had ■driven them from their mines and omnehes and glutted the town with (men. for the war was on in Mexico and from the farthermost corners of (Sonora they still came, hot from some mew scene of murder and pillage, to Add to the general discontent. As the day wore on the crowd on (the bank corner, where the refugees (made their stand, changed its complexion. grew big. and stretched far up (the street. Men stood in shifting groups, talking, arguing, gazing moodily at those who passed. Here were hawk-eyed Texas cattlemen. thinking of their scattered herds at Mababi or El Tigre; mining men, (with idle prospects and deserted mines si far south as the Rio Yaqui; millmen, ranchers and men of trades; all driven in from below the line and all stating at the leash. While a hundred petty chiefs stood oat against Madero end lived by ransom and loot, they must cool their heels in Gadsden and watt for the end to come. }' into this seething mass of the dispossessed, many of whom had lost a fortune by the war, there came two more, with their faces still drawn and from hard riding through the cold. They stepped forth from the marble entrance of the big hotel and swung off down the street to see the town. They walked slowly, gazing into the strange faces in the vague hope of ending some friend; and Gadsden, not to be outdone, looked them over curiously and wondered whence they had come. The bunch of cowboys, still loitering on the corner, glanced scornfully at the smaller man, who sported a pair of puttees—and then at the big man's feet Finding them encased in prospector's shoes they stared dumbly at his wind-burned face and muttered among themselves. He was tall, and broad across the shoulders, with far-seeing blue eyes and a mop of light hair; and he walked on his toes, stiff-legged, swaying from his hips tike a man on horseback. The rumble of comment rose up again as he racked -past and then a cowboy ■wake observed: -m bet ye he's a cow-punch!“ The big man looked back at them mockingly out of the corner of his eye «urf went on without aword

It Is the boss! of cowboys that they can tell another puncher at a glance, but they are not alone In this—there are other crafts that leave their mark and other men as shrewd. A group of mining men took one look at the smaller man, noting the candle-grease on his corduroys and the intelligence in his eyes; and to them the big man was no more than a laborer —or a shift-boss at most —and the little man was one of their kind. Every line in his mobile face spoke of intellect and decision, and as they walked it was he who did the talking while the big man only nodded and smiled. They took a turn or two up the street, now drifting into some clamoroue saloon, now standing at gaze on the sidewalk; and as the drinks began to work, the little man became more and more animated, the big man more and more amiable in his assent and silence. Then they passed the crowd of refugees they stopped and listened, commenting on the various opinions by an ezchange of knowing smiles. An old prospector, white-haired and tanned to a tropic brown, finally turned upon a presumptuous optimist and the little man nodded approvingly as he heard him express his views. “You can say what you please," the prospector ended, “but I’m going to keep out of that country. I’ve knowed them Mexicans for thirty years now and. I'm telling you they’re gltting treacherous. It don’t do no good to have your gun with you—they'll shoot you from behind a rock —and if they can’t git you that way, they’ll knife you in your Bleep. % •Tve noticed a big change in them palsanos since this war come on. Before Madero made hiß break they used to be scared of Americans —thought if they killed one of ue the rest would cross the border and eat ’em up. What few times they did tackle a white man he generally give a good account of himself, too, and I’ve traveled them trails for years without hardly knowing what it was to be afraid of anybody; but I tell you It’s entirely different over there now.” “Sure! That’s right!” spoke up the little man, with spirit "You’re talking more sense than any man on the street I guess I ought to know—l’ve been down there and through it all—and it's got so now that you can’t trust any of ’em. My pardner and I came clear from the Sierra Madres, riding nights, and we come pretty near knowing—hey. Bud?” ’That’s right” observed Bud, the big man, with a reminiscent grin, “I begin to think them fellers would get üb, for a while!” “Mining men?” inquired the old prospector politely. “Working on a lease,” said the little man briefly. “Owner got scared out and let us In on shares. But no more for muh—this will hold me for quite a while, I can tell you!” “Here, too,” agreed the big man, turning to go. “Arizona Is good enough for me—come on, Phil!” ' "Where to?’’ The little man drew back half resentfully, and then he changed his mind. “All right.” he said, falling into step, “a gin fizz for mlnel” “Not on an empty stomach,” admonished his pardner; “you might get lit up and tell somebody all you know. How about something to eat?” “Good! But where 're you going?” The big man was leading off down a side street, and once more they came to a halt. “Jim’s place —it’s a lunch-counter,” he explained laconically. “The hotel’s all right, and maybe that was a breakfast we got, but I get hungry waiting that way. Gimme a lunch-counter, where I can wrop my legs around a stool and watch the cook turn ’em over. Come on —I been there before.” i An expression of pitying tolerance came over the little man’s face as he listened to this rhapsody on the quick lunch, but he drew away reluctantly. “Aw, come on, Bud,” he pleaded. “Have a little.class! What’s the use of winning a stake if you’ve got to eat at a dog-joint? And besides—say, that was a peach of a girl that waited on u 8 this morning! Did you notice her hair? She was a pippin!” The big man waggled his hand resignedly and started on his way. “All right, pardner," he observed; “If that’s the deal she’s probably looking for you. I'll meet you in the room.” “Aw, come on!" urged the other, but his heart waa not in it, and he turned gaily away up the main street. Left to himself, the big man went on to his lunch-counter, where he ordered oysters, “A dozen In the milk.” Then he ordered a beefsteak, to mike up for several he had missed, and asked the cook to fry It rare. He was just negotiating for scan ot pears that had caught his eye when an old man came in and took the stool beside him, picking up the menu with trembling hand. “Give me a cup of coffee,” he said to the waiter, “and”—he gazed at the bill of fare carefully—“and a roast-beef sandwich. No, just the coffee!” he corrected, and at that Bud gave him a look. He was_a small man, shahbily dressed and with scraggy whiskers, land Ms nose was very red.

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, INP.

(Copyright. UU. hr Frank A Mun*ey.)

By DANE COOLIDGE

Author of -THE FIGHTING POOL,” “HIDDEN WATERS,” “THE TEHCAN," Etc. Illustrations by DON J. LAVIN

“Here,” called Bud, coming to an instant conclusion, “give 'im his sandwich; I’ll pay for it!” “All right,” anwered the waiter, who was no other than Sunny Jim, the proprietor, and, whisking up a sandwich from the sideboard, he set it before the old man, who glanced at him in silence. For a fraction of a second he regarded the sandwich apathetically; then, with the aid of his coffee, he made away with it and slipped down off his stool. “Say,” observed the proprietor, as Bud was paying his bill, “do you know who that old-timer was?” “What old-timer?” inquired Bud. who bad forgotten bis break benefaction. k "Why, that old feller that you treated to the sandwich." “Oh —him! Some old drank around town?" hazarded Bud. "Well, he’s that, too," conceded Sunny Jim, with a smile. “But lemme tell you, pardner, if you had half the rocks that old boy’s got you wouldn’t need to punch any more cows. That’s Henry Kruger, the man that just sold the Cross-Gut mine for fifty thousand cash, and he’s got more besides.” “Huh!” grunted Bud, "he sure don't look it! Say, why didn’t you put me wise? Now I’ve got to hunt him up and apologize.” “Oh. that’s all right,” assured the proprietor; “he won’t take any offense. That’s Just like old Henry—he’s kinder queer that way.” “Well, I’ll go and see him. anyway." said Bud. "He might think I was butting in.” And then, going about his duty with philosophical calm, he ambled off. stifflegged, down the street CHAPTER 11. It was not difficult to find Henry Kruger in Gadsden. The barkeepers, those efficient purveyors of information and drinks, knew him as they knew their thumbs, and a casual round of the saloons soon located him in the back room of the Waldorf. "Say,” began Bud, walking bluffly up to him, “the proprietor of that restaurant back there tells me I made a mistake when I insisted on paying for your meal. I Jest wanted to let you know —” "Oh, that’s all right, young man,” returned Old Henry, looking up with a humorous smile; “we all of us make our mistakes. I knpwed you didn’t

“We All of Us Maks Our Mistakes.”

mean no offense and bo I never took none. Fact is, I liked you all the better for it. This country is getting settled up with a class of people that never give a nickel to nobody. You paid for that meal like it Was nothing, and never so Auch as looked (at me. Sit down, sit down—rl want to talk to you!’’ f Thev sat down by the stove and fell into a friendly conversation in which nothing more was said of the late inadvertence, but when Bud rose to gq the old man beckoned Mm back. “Hold on,” he protested; “don’t go off mad. I want to have a talk with you on business. You seem to be a pretty good young fellow —maybe we can make some dicker. What are you looking for in these parts?” “Well,” responded Bud. "some kind of a leasing proposition, I reckon. Me, and my pardner jest come in from Mexico, over near the Chihuahua line, and we don’t hardly know what we -do want yet_” -Yes. I’ve noticed that pardner ol yours.” remarkedyHenry Kruger dryly. He’s a great tatter. 1 was listening to yon boys out on the street there, having nothing else to dCMpuch, and being kinder on the lookout for a man, anyway, and it struck me I liked your line of talk best.” "You’re easy satisfied,- then,” observed Bud. With a glia. T neversaid a word hardly.”

"That’s it,” returned Kruger significantly; “this job I've got calls for a man like that." "Well, Phil’s all right,” spoke up Bud, with sudden warmth. “We been pardners for two years now end he never give nothing away yet! He talks, but he don't forget himself. And the way he can palaver them Mexicans is a wonder.” “Very likely, very likely,” agreed Kruger, and then he sat a while in silence. "We got a few thousand dollars with us. too,” volunteered Bud at last. "I’m a good worker, if that’s what you want —and Phil, he’s a mining engineer." "Urn-in,” grunted Kruger, tugging at hia beard, but he did not come oat with his proposal. "I tell you,” he 'said at last. "I’m, not doing much talking about this proposition of mine. It’s a big thing, and somebody might beat me to it You know what I am, I guess. I’ve pulled off some of the biggest deals in this country for a poor man, and I don’t make many mistakes —not about mineral, anyway. And when I tell you that this is rich—you’re talking with a man that knows.” He his shrewd, blue eyes on the young man’s open countenance and waited for him to speak. “That’s right,” he continued, as Bud finally nodded non-committally; "she’s sure rich. I’ve had an eye on this proposition for years—Just waiting for the right time to come. And now it’s come! All I need is the man. It ain’t a dangerous undertaking—leastwise I don’t think it is—but I got to have somebody I can trust. I’m willing to pay you good wages, or I’ll let you in on the deal —but you’ll have to go down into Mexico.” “Nothin' doing!” responded Bud with instant decision. "If it’s in Arizona I’ll talk to you, but no more Mexico for me. I’ve got something pretty good down there myself, as far as that goes.” "What’s the matter?” lnnuired Kruger, set back by the abrupt refusal; “scared?” “Yes, I’m scared,” admitted Bud, and he challenged the old man with his eyes. “Must have had a little trouble, then?” “Well, you might call It that,” agreed Bud. "We been on the dodge for a month. A bunch of revoltosos tried to get our treasure, and when we skipped out on ’em they tried to get us."

•‘Well," continued Kruger, “this proposition of mine is different. You xvas over in the Sierra Madres, where the natives are bad. These Sonora Mexicans ain’t like them Chihuahua fellers—tifey’re Americanized. I’ll tell you, if it wasn’t that the people would know me I’d go down after this mine myself. The country’s perfectly quiet. There’s lota of Americans down there yet, and they don’t even know there is a revolution. It ain’t far from the railroad, you see, and that makes a lot of difference." He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper as he revealed the approximate locality of.his bonanza, but Bud remained unimpressed, t "Yes,’’ he said, "we was near a railroad —the Northwestern—and seemed like them red-flaggers did nothing else but burn bridges and ditch supply trains. When they finally whipped ’em off the whole bunch took to the hills. That’s where we got it again." "Well,” argued Kruger, “this railroad of ours is all right, and they run a train over it every day. The concentrator at Fortuna”—he lowered his voice again—“hasn’t been shut down a day. and you’ll be within fifteen miles of that town. No,” he whispered; “I could get a hundred Americans to go in on this tomorrow, as far’s the revolution's concerned. It ain’t dangerous, but I want somebody I can trust.” “Nope,” pronounced Bud, rising ponderously to his feet; "if it was this side the line I’d stay with you, till the hair slipped, on anything, but—” “Well, let’s talk it over again some tilhe.” urged Kruger, following him along out. “It ain’t often I get took with a young feller the way I was with you. and I> believe we can make it yet. Where are you staying in town?” “Up st the Cochise,” said Bud. “Come on with told my pardner I’d meet him there." They turned up the broad main street and passed in through the polished stone portals of the Cochise, a hotel so spacious in its interior and so richly appointed in its furnishings that a New Yorker, waking up there, might easily imagine himself on Fifth avenue. It was hardly a place to be looked for in the West, and as Bud led the way across the echoing lobby to a pair of stuffed chairs he had a vague feeling of being In church. Stained-glass windows above the winding stairways let in a soft light, and on the towering pillars of marble were-emblazoned prickly-pears as an emblem of the West. From the darkened* balconies above, half-seen women looked down curiously as they entered, and in the broad lobby below were gathered the prosperous citizens of the -land. : There were cattlemen, still wealing

their bonce sad overalls, the better to attend to their shipping; mining men, juet as they had come from the hills; •nd others more elegantly dressed — but they all had a nod for Henry Kruger. He was a man oC mark, as Bud could see in a minute; but if be had other business with those who hailed him be let it pass and took out a rank brier pipe, which he puffed while Bud smoked a cigarette. They were sitting together in a friendly silence when Phil came out of the dining room, but as be drew near the old man nodded to Bud - and went over to speak to the clerk. "Who waa that old-timer you were talking to?” inquired Phil, as he tank, down in the vacant, chair. “Looks like the-morning-after with him, don’t it?” “Urn,” grunted Bud; "reckon it is. Name’s Kruger.” “What—the mining roan?" “That’s right” “Well,” exclaimed Phi!, “what in the world was he talking to you about?” “Oh, some kind of a mining deal,” grumbled Bud. “Wanted me to go down into Mexico!” "What’d you tell him?” challenged the little man, sitting up suddenly in his chair. "Say. that old boy’s got rocks!” “He can keep ’em for all of me,” observed Bud comfortably. “You know what I think about Mexico.” “Sure; but what was his proposition? What did he want you to do?” “Search me! He was mighty mysterious about it. Said he wanted a man he could trust."

“Well, holy Moses, Bud!" cried Phil, “wake up! Didn’t you get his proposition?” “No, he wasn’t talking about it. Said it was a good thing and he'd pay me well, or let me in on the deal; but when he hollered Mexico I quit. I’ve got a plenty.” “Yes, but—’’ the little man choked and could say no more. “Well, you’re one Jim dandy business man, Bud Hooker!" he burst out at last “You’d let—” “Well, what’s the matter?” demanded Hooker defiantly. “Do you want to go back into Mexico? Nor me, neither! What you kicking about?” “You might have led him on and got the scheme, anyway. Maybe there’s a million in It. Come on, let’s go over and talk to him. I’d take a chance, if it was good enough." “Aw, don’t be a fool, Phil,” urged the cowboy plaintively. “We’ve got ho call to hear his scheme unless we want to go In on it. Leave him alone and he’ll do something for us on this side. Oh, cripes, what’s the matter with you?" He heaved himself reluctantly up out of his chair and moved over to where Kruger was sitting. “Mr. Kruger," he said, as the old man turned to meet him, “I’ll make 'you acquainted, with Mr. De Lancey, my pardner. My name’s Hooker.” “Glad to know you. Hooker,” responded Kruger, shaking him by the hand. “How’do, Mr. De Lancey." He gave Phil a rather crusty nod as he spoke, but De Lancey was dragging up another chair and failed to notice. “Mr. Hooker was telling me about some proposition you had, to go down into Mexico,” he began, drawing up closer while the old man watched him from under his eyebrows. “That’s one tough country to do bueiness in right now, but at the same time —" “The cpjjjptry’s perfectly quiet," put in Kruger—"perfectly quiet.” “Well, maybe so,” qualified De Lancey; “but when it comes to getting in supplies—” “Not a bit of trouble in the world,” said the old man crabbedly. “Not a bit" “Well,” came back De' Lancey, “what’s the matter, then? What is the proposition, anyway?” Henry Kruger blinked and eyed him Intently.

“I’ve stated the proposition to Hooker," he said, “and he refused it. That’s enough, ain’t it?” De Lancey laughed and turned away; '“Well, yes, I guess it is.”* Then, in passing, he said to Bud: “Go ahead and talk to him.” He walked away, lighting a cigarette and smiling good-naturedly, and the old-timer turned to Bud. “That’s a smart man you’ve got for a pardner." he remarked. “A smart man. You want to look out,” he added, “or he’ll get away with you.” “Nope,’ said Bud. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s straight as a die." “A man can be straight and still get away with you,” observed the veteran shrewdly. “Yes, indeed." He paused to let this hit of wisdom sink in, and then he spoke again. “You'd better quit—while you’rs lucky,” he suggested. “You quit and come with me,” he urged, "and if we Btrike it I’ll make yap a rich man. I don’t need your pardner** on this deal. I need Just one man that can keep his head shut. Listen now; 11l tell you what it la: “I know where there’s a lost mins down in Mexico. If I’d teU yon the name you’d know it in a minute, and it’s free gold, too. Now there’s a fellow that had that land located for ten years, but he couldn’t find the lead. D’ye see? And when this second revolution came on he let it go-—he neglected to pay his mining taxes and let it go back to the government. And now ail I want is a quiet man to slip in and denounce that land and open up the lead. Here, look at this! He went down into hla pocket and brought out a buckskin sack, from -which be handed over a piece of wellworn quartz. CFO BE CONTINUED.) .

Varying Weights la Use.

The German pound is exactly one half a klK>gy*ip; or 'about ondtontr,; more than tfae Amerieahaad Bngllst

MYTHS HARD TO DOWN

ONCE GAINING MEABURE OF B& lief, they last. That Bonaparte Visited London Wan Once Common Talk—Many Iriahmen Convinced De Wet Really Was Charles 8. Parnell. Was Napoleon Bonaparte ever In London? There |s a legend that In 1791 hr 1792 ho lodged in George street, Adelphi. The grandfather of the comedian Matthews, James Colman, who had lived In Leicester sqaare for a century, and several honest tradesmen of the Strand swore that they met him during hia visit of flvte weeks. It was reported that he passed most of his time in walking thropgh the streets. Occasionally ho took a cup of chocolate at a coffee house, “where he occupied himself in reading” and “preserved a taciturnity provoking to gentlemen In the room.” And so there Is a Bostonian of intelligence, who, visiting in a country house in England, swears that he saw train after train go by carrying Russian soldiers. He knew the uniform and recognized it. Another Intelligent Bostonian has a friend that happened to be at Archangel, where he saw Russian troops embark. What would life be without the myths and legends? During the Boer war there were Irishmen in Ireland, and possibly in this countiy, who believed that De Wet was no less a personage than Charles Stewart Parnell. The two bore a facial resemblance, and some declined to believe the story of Parnell’s death. There are Georgians who will swear to you on the honor of a southern gentleman that Marshal Ney was not shot to death as in Gerome’s picture; that he came to Georgia, led the life of a planter, prospered and died in bed at a good old age. It is easy to convince many that the dauphin died in prison. If some heny the claim of the clockmaker, others accept that of Rev. Eleazer Williams. What a stir the article. "Have We a Bourbon Among Us?” made about sixty years ago when it was published in Putnam’s Magazine! And in 1854 Rev. J. H. Hanson published “The Lost Prince,” proving to his satisfaction the identity of Louis XVII and the blameless missionary to the Indians. The common people at Trieste and Pola, during Sir Richard F. Burton’s consulship at the-former city, believed that thfe Archduke Maximilian was not killed in Mexico, but was a prisoner there, guarded by three jailers, captains in the English, French and Austrian navies. And so Nero was not in his coffin of porphyry when his funeral cost two hundred thousand sesterces. He appeared in revolt among the Parthians even while Suetonius, the scandal monger, was alive and writing down his sniggering gossip about the emperors.

Tobacco in America.

Americans have always been pipe and cigar smokers. In the early days of the colonies cigars were imported, hut it is a safe assumption that the great bulk of cigars smoked by our colonial ancestors were homemade or home-rolled. Gentlemen made their cigars or had them made by their servants just as they generally distilled their own brandy from their own fruit. The cigar-making industry did not begin to be a factory industry until 1810, when the first American cigar factory was established in Connecticut, but the factory-made cigar flourished and by 1825 there were numerous small cigar factories in Connecticut, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, Maryland and Virginia. There was-then no internal revenue tax on cigars or other forms of prepared tobacco, the first internal revenue tax on domestic ctgars and other tobacco products being laid under the internal revenue law of 1862, which was, of course, a war revenue measure.

Fisherwomen Knit.

The fisherwomen of the East of Scotland are among the most dexterous knitters in the world and their skill is being turned to good account at this time, when their other sources of income are, to a great extent, paralyzed through the war. Quite recently an urgent need arose for the manufacture at short notice of some 40,000 pairs of socks for troops at the front, and these, through the agency of the Scottish committee on women’s employment, have been placed with the women of a number of fishing villages up and down the east coast of Scotland, more particularly in Aberdeenshire. Other large orders for socks, mittens, and the like have been given out to the fisherwomen in various parts of Scotland, and are affording a welcome addition to their diminished earnings in this most difficult time, more especially as in these fishing villages it would be a matter of extreme difficulty to arrange any other practicable scheme of work for the women.

For Speakers to Remember.

Dr. Blake Odgers recently gave a lecture on “The Discipline of the Bar.” Doctor Odgers asked his audience to remember the “rule of the three ups —stand up, speak up and shut up.” "A lounging speaker,” he said, “is never convincing; a muttering speaker hr never heard; and a lengthy speaker' has no honesty in other people’s time.* Be steals it and-waster It. Row cm you trust him with your conduct or your thought, if he steals and wastes jour timer"