Rensselaer Journal, Volume 11, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 November 1901 — SALOMY JANE'S KISS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

SALOMY JANE'S KISS.

BY BRET HARTE.

[CONTINDKD.I ’*- But there no gun was to be found. It was strange. It must have been mislaid In some corner. Was he sure he had not left It In the barn? But no matter now. The danger was over. The Larrabee trick had failed. He must go to bed now, and In the morning they would make a search together. At the same time she had Inwardly resolved to rise before him and make another search of the wood and perhaps, fearful joy as she recalled her promise, And him, alive and well, awaiting her! Salomy Jane slept little that night, nor did her father, but toward morning he fell into a tired man’s slumber until the sun was well up In the horizon. Far different was it with his daughter. She lay with her face to the window, her head half lifted to catch every Bound, from the creaking of the sun warped shingles above her head to the faroff moan of the rising wind Hi the pine trees. Sometimes she fell into a breathless, half ecstatic trance, living over every moment of the stolen Interview, feeling the fugitive’s arm still around her, his kiss on her lips, hearing his whispered voice In her ears, the birth of her new life! This was followed again by a period of agonizing dread—that he might even then be lying, ebbing his life away, In the woods, with her name on his lips, and she resting here Inactive —until she half started from her bed to go to his succor. And this went on until a pale opal glow came Into the sky, followed by a still paler pink on the summit of the white Sierras, when she rose and hurriedly began to dress. Still so sanguine was her hope of meeting him that she lingered yet a moment to select the brown holland skirt and yellow sunbonnet she had worn when she first saw him. And she had seen him only twice, only twice! It would be cruel, too cruel, not to see him again. She crept softly down the stairs, listening to the long drawn breathing of her father In his bedroom, and then, by the light of a guttering candle, scrawled a note to him, bogging him not to trust himself out of the house until she returned from her scurc'u, and. leaving the note open on the table, swiftly ran out into the growing day.

Three hours afterward Mr. Madison Clay awoke to the sound of loud knocking. At first this forced Itself upon his consciousness as his daughter’s regular morning summons and was responded to by a grunt of recognition and a nestling closer to his blankets. Then he awoke with a start and a muttered oath, remembering the events of last night and his intentionto get up early, and rolled out of bed. Becoming aware by this time that the knocking was at the outer door and hearing the shout of a familiar voice, he hastily pulled on his boots and 1 is Jean trousers and, fastening a single suspender over his shoulder as he clattered down stairs, stood in the lower room. The door was open, and waiting upon the threshold was, his kinsman, an old ally In many a blood feud, Breckinridge Clay. "iou are a cool one. Mad,” said tbs latter in half admiring Indignation. “Wot’s up?” said the bewildered Madison.

“You ought to be, aud scootin out of this,” said Breckinridge grimly. “It’s all very well to know nothin, but yere’s Phil Larrabee’s friends have just picked him up, drilled through with slugs and deader nor a crow, and now they’re lettin loose Larrabee’s two half brothers on you. Aud you must go like a durned fool and leave these yere things behind you In the bresh,” he went on querulously, lifting Madison Clay’s dust coat, hat and shotgun from his horse, which stood saddled at the door. “Luckily I picked ’em up In the woods comin yere. You ain’t got more than time to get over the state line and among your folks thar afore they’ll be down on you. Hustle, old man! Wot are you gawkln am, starin at?” Madison Clay had stared amazed and bewildered, horror stricken. The Incidents of the past night for the first time flashed upon him clearly, hopelessly—the shot, his finding Salomy Jane alone In the woods, her confusion and anxiety to rid herself of him, the disappearance of the shotgun and now this new discovery of the taking of Ills hat ajid coat for a disguise. She had killed Paul Larrabee in that disguise after provoking his first harmless shot! She, his own child, Salomy Jane, had disgraced herself by a man’s crime, had .disgraced him by usurping his right and taking a mean advantage, bv deceit, of « fr\t% t

“Gimme that gun,” he said* hoarsely. Breckinridge handed him the gun In wonder and slowly gathering suspicion. Madison examined uipple and muzzle. One barrel had been discharged. It was true! The gun dropped from his hand. “Look here, old man,” said Brecklnndge, with a darkening face, “tliar’a been no foul play yere. Thar's been no lilrin of men, no deputy, to do this Job. You did It, fair and square, yourself.” “Yes, by God!” hurst out Madison Clay lu a hoarse voice. “Who says 1 didn’t?” Reassured, yet believing that Madison Clay had nerved himself for the act by an overdraft of whisky, which had affected his memory, Breckinridge said curtly, “Then wake up and lite out es you want me to stand by you.” “Go to the corral and ptek me out a boss,” said MadTson slowly, yet not without a certain dignity of manner. “I’ve suthin to say to Salomy Jane afore I go.” He was holding her scribbled note, which he had Just discovered, In his shaking hand. Struck by his kinsman’s manner and knowing the dependent relations of father and daughter, Breckinridge nodded and hurried away. Left to himself, Madison Clay ran his fingers through his hair and straightened out the paper on which Salomy Jane had scrawled her note, turned It over and wrote on the back: You mout kave told me you did It and not leave your ole father to find it out how you dlagraeed yourself and him, too, by a low down, underhanded woman’s trick I I’ve said I done It and took the blame myself and all the sneakiness of it that folks suspect. Es I get away alive—and I don’t much care which—you needn’t foller. The house and stock are yours, but you ain’t any longer the daughter of your disgraced father. Madison Glat. He had scarcely finished the note when, with a clatter of hoofs and a led horse, Breckinridge reappeared at tflo door elate and triumphant. “You’re In nigger luck, Mad! I found that stole boss of Judge Boompolnter’s had got

He leaped on the stolen horse and swept away with, his kinsman. away and strayed among your stock In the corral. Take him and you’re Bate. He can’t be outrun this side of the state line.” “I ain’t no boss thief," said Madison grimly. “Nobody says you are, but you’d be wuss, a fool, es you didn’t take him. I’m testimony that you found him among your hosses. I’ll tell Judge Boompointer you’ve got him, and you kin send him back when you're safe. The Judge will be mighty glad to get him back and call it quits. So, es you’ve writ to Salomy Jane, come.”' Madison Clay no longer hesitated. Salomy Jane might return at any moment—lt would be part of her fool womanishness—and he was in no mood to see her before a third party. He laid the note on the table, gave a hurried glance around the house, which he grimly believed he was leaving forever, and, striding to the door, leaped on the stolen horse and swept away with his kinsman. But that note lay for a week undisturbed on the table In full view of the open door. The house was Invaded by leaves, pine cones, birds and squirrels during the hot, silent, empty days and at night by shy, stealthy creatures, but never again, day or night, by any of the Clay, family. It was known In the district that Clay had fled across the state line, his daughter was believed to have joined him the next day, and the house was supposed to be locked up. It lay off the main road, and few passed that way. The starving cattle In the corral at last broke bounds and spread over the woods. And one night a stronger blast than usual swept through the house and carried the note from the table to the floor, where, whirled Into a crack In the flooring, It slowly rotted. But, though the sting of her father’s reproach was spared her, Salomy Jane had no need of the letter to know what had happened, for as she entered the woods In the dim light of that morning she saw the figure of Dart gliding from the shadow of a pine toward her. The unaffected cry of Joy that rose from her lips died there as she caught sight of his face In the open light. “You’re hurt." she said, clutching his arm passionately. “No,” he said, “but I wouldn’t mind that ef”— 3 “You’re think in I was a feared to

come back last night when I heard the shootin, but 1 did come,” she went on feverishly, “l ran back yore when 1 heard the two shots, but you were goue. 1 went to the corral, but your boss wasu’t there, aud I thought you'd got away." "1 did get away." said Dart gloomily. “I killed the mau, tliiuklu he was huntIn me and forgettln l was disguised. He thought 1 was your father.” "Yes,” said the girl joyfully, "he was after dad, and you—you killed him.” She agalu caught his baud admiringly. But he did not respond. Possibly there were points of honor which this horse thief felt vaguely with her father. “Listen,” he said grimly. "Others think it was your father killed him. When 1 did It, for he tired at me first, I ran to the corral ng’ln and took mv boss, thlnkln I niout be follered. 1 made a clear circuit of the house, and when 1 fired he was the only one, and no one was follerln. 1 coine hack and took off my disguise. Then I heard his friends find him In the wood, aud I know they suspected your father. And then another mnn came through the woods while I was hldln and found the :lotheß and took ’em away.” He stopped and stared at her gloomily. But all this was unintelligible to the girl. “Dad would have got the better of him es you hadn’t," she said eagerly, "so what’s the difference?” “All the same,” he said gloomily, “I must take his place.” She did not understand, but turned her head to her master. “Then* you’ll go back with me aud tell him all?” she said obediently. "Yes,” he said. She put her hand In his, and they crept out of the wood together. She foresaw a thousand difficulties, but, chlefest of .all, that he did not love her as he did. She would not have taken these risks against their happiness. But nlas for ethics and heroism 1 As they were issuing from the wood they heard the sound of galloping hoofs and hail barely time to hide themselves before Madison Clay, on the stolen horse of Judge - Booinpoluter, swept past them with his kinsman. Snlomy June turned to her lover.

And here I might ns n moral romancer pause, leaving the guilty, passionate girl, eloped with her disreputable lover, destined to lifelong shame and misery. misunderstood to the last by a criminal, fastidious parent, but I am confronted by certain facts on which this romance Is based. A month later a handbill was posted on one of the sentinel pines announcing that the property would be sold by auction to the highest bidder by Mrs. John Dart, daughter of Mndison Clay, Ksq., and It was sold accordingly. Still later by ten years the chronicler of these pages visited a certain stock or breeding farm In the blue grass country, famous for the popular racers It had produced. He was told that the owuer was the best Judge of horseflesh In the country. “Small wonder,” added his Informant, “for they say ns a young man out In California ho was a horse thief and only saved himself by eloping with some rich fnrmer’s daughter. But lie’s a stralghlout and respectable man now, whose word about horses can’t be bought. And as for his Wife, she’s a beauty! To see her at the Springs, rigged out In the latest fashion, you’d never think she hnd ever lived out of New York or wnsn’t the Wife of one of Its millionaires."