Walkerton Independent, Volume 51, Number 30, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 22 October 1925 — Page 2

From School Teacher to Great Eminence ▲ young man who was brought up on ■ farm-. qualified for district school

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CHAPTER XVll—Continued —l4— She did not talk to him as he fixed the car, nor when, having looked back I along the slight cut of the old prehistoric torrent bed now filled almost to its old banks with drifting sands, he squatted over a map, measuring and consulting a pocket compass. His anxiety was evident. They went forward again, however, under the full light of day into a trackless waste where there was not even a depression to guide them and where Brena, holding the compas* in her hands, gave directions to him as he moved the wheel. At the end of twenty miles more Brena uttered an exclamation. “What I; that on the desert?” she asked. 'Peter, look I There! to the left.” A little point of light shone on the sand as if a diamond had caught the sunlight and had extracted from it a bit of its essence to outshine the sun himself. Peter, steering towaru it, looked down over the edge of the car ' a* one might look over the edge of a boat at some piece of strange flotsam sighted in midocean. This was strange flotsam Indeed. Peter having stopped the car again to pick It up, showed It to Brena; it was an empty vial of white glass. Peter sprang out of the car, and, walking about In widening circles, searched the ground. He appeared excited. Time and time again he looked at the little glass vial. “Some one has been here,” said Brena. “I’m just Irish enough to say that. Peter.” “Hush,” be said. Tre seen more than you have seen. It means everything to us!” He bent over her as If he were going to take her In bis arms, but be tossed his head at some thought that bad restrained him, and took the । wheel once more. At nine o’clock they came within sight of a great mound on the desert; It appeared as if It were the fat round back of some gigantic creature that had buried Itself for a -sleep of centuries In a sand wallow of vast area. “There It Is!” exclaimed DeWolfe. | “Look, Brena. Look to the west. ! Somewhere up there is the Llano Es- . tacado—the Staked plain—as the । Spanish explorers called it. And : there’s the haze on the horizon —the haze that the Jesuit missionaries told about It comes from the colder air of the Mescalero ridge!” “And It means that we have found our way?” "Yes, found our way. There's ninety miles more.” “Where are we going?" “To the oldest city, Brena, in America. To a city at the base of a high cliff, built of clay which crumbled centuries ago Into dust. The wall is left perhaps as it was two centuries ago. A dry weil. A carving upon the rock. A windless place occupied only by horned toads and perhaps one other . misshapen thing.” At three o’clock they had stopped again to eat; they were able to see In the west the tops of distant mountains marked by a deeper, duller blue than the thin cloudless rotunda of the sky. An hour later they came within sight of the tableland upon which these mountains were set like plies of food upon a giant’s doorstep. And this step up—this mesa—with its precipitous edge, marked the end of the desert. “The cliffs that rise to that tableland are Impassable,” said Peter, with bis eyes alight and his voice filled with excitement. “The city was built below their protection around a great well and walled In front with thick fortifications. We shall see them, Brena !” He looked at the opening In the high wall as if it were the maw of Destiny opened to belch forth upon them a sentence. “Tell me, Peter—are there dangers there? Do you know?” “I only guess,” he answered. “I think there are none. I think, Brena, that beyond that wall there Is freedom for us—life for us—a message for i us.” “I must go with you.” He nodded. At the entrance he stopped, gazing down at the ground—the film, the blanket of fine dust. He uttered an exclai mation. “What do you see, Peter?” “I see a record In the sand.” "What record?” “We shall see more,” he said grimly. “Come.” Toward this memorial of tragedy, of death, of decay, of the Insignificance of time, of the Inconsequence of an age of man, Brena and Peter, like two l creatures of a moment of life, walked with solemn, awed faces. "Look !" said I’eter suddenly. “Have you your nerve? Look!” He pointed to a pile of charred bones lying close to the well. Among i them was a piece of human skull blackened as if by fire. “Wait,” Peter commanded. He went forward, bent over the ghastly pile, kicked the sand that surrounded it and, stooping down, gathi ered a number of objects into the cup of his hand. “This was no prehistoric man.” he «nld solemnly. "See! The eyelets and 'he nails of shoes. The leather long igo vanished. Here are two mother •f pearl buttons, a pocket knife, oins. the snap on a wallet. This man ost his life, Brena, many years ago.” She tried to speak, wetting her dry ps with the tip of her tongue. “There are things of gold, too.” ^ald eter. “Keep your nerve, dear. Look r this!" He held out In his trembling fingers

a signet ring with an H deeply engraved upon It. “That I” exclaimed Brena with horror. "It was his! —Jim Hennepin’s. : This Is—him?” “Yes.” Brena moved toward the pile of bones half consumed by fire; then she stopped and looked away. 1 “He was killed,” she said. "He was shot or stabbed.” "No,” replied Peter grimly. “It was worse thau that —more ghastly. He was killed. But it was not by human hand.” CHAPTER XVIII "Brena, I want you to stand here by this old well without walking away from It a moment,” said Peter, taking her by the shoulders and looking squarely into her dark eyes. "I’m going to leave you alone a minute. It’s not pleasant. 1 want you to do it just the same.” “Where are you going?” "Outside the wall again. I’ve seen something there that you did no^ see.” Brena shivered. “Don't be afraid, dear,” he said. “We have had —both of us—the lesson of futile fear. Once we told each other that fear was a crime—a terrible waste. We are on the verge of learning how terrible a waste it can be.” She put her hands In his; with a I smile she said, "You see, Peter, I am tn the dark, dear. But just the same I'll do as you tell me.” As he walked away from her, his head bent forward as If meditating, she leaned back against the hot, fiat face of one of the huge stone blocks of the well curb, following him with her steady gaze. He disappeared outside the old wall, and as he vanished, so vanished all that attached her to the living world. There was no sound, no motion within the range of the senses; the place of death was still. From the tablelands above, a lonely buzzard had come swooping down on wide black wings, dipping and turning, with one eye cocked down, as If sometime before he had picked bones in this Inclosure and had returned to the scene of gruesome feasts. Black, 111-omened, carrion creature that he was, Brena felt glad that he had come —a thing of life and motion —into this place of vast dimensions filled by the silences and rigidity of death. She watched the magnificent grace and power of his flight until Peter's voice broke the silence again, and, flapping toward the west, the bird began to circle up whence he had come. “Brena,” said I’eter, who came to her with an expression drawn as If with some stress within. “Yes?” “Sit down with me here where these blocks cast a shadow, dear. I will show you what I have found—a thing like the writing of a giant finger of justice—here In the desert. But first I want to tell you a tale, Brena —true, revolting and terrible.” "Tell me,” she said, sitting with her elbows on her knees. “It Is of surprising brevity, Brena,” he asserted. "Its simplicity Is the thing that makes ridiculous the many things I expected, all the nightmares of the unknown. I told you, dear, that I was no Master Mind—no Great Analyst In capital letters. I was right. I stumbled onto the trail. I used my head. That’s all.” He stopped to think. “And yet the simplicity Is hideous!” he said. Brena glanced toward all that remained of Jim Hennepin of Virginia—sr be Ml "It Is There—Here In the Sand—a Record,” He Said. A Ghastly Record." the blackened fleshless relics of his existence. “He deserved it, perhaps,” said Peter pointing. “He tried to cash In his knowledge.” “You told me last night of the superstition of buried treasure here,” she said. “You mean that?” "No, not exactly,” said Peter. “I picked up the trail in the house where Pannalee took you. Two old books; and maps of this country and of this place were missing from both. One Pannalee took when he went away. The other? Well, I began to wonder about the other.” “You thought It must have been used —before.” “Yes. It had been used and prob-

ably destroyed. It was used by one man to toll another to hts death.” Brena leaned forward. “I began to be sure, Brena, when I found that expert knowledge pronounced that the writing on a check made out by the one man who led the other to his death here was written by the same hand that, with an attempt to disguise, had written the words, “This Sign,” on the scrap of paper Jim Hennepin left with you and that you gave me. I’d better tell you that when I first took that check It was because your indorsement was on It. I wasn’t sure, Brena—of anybody." “I understand,” she said. “I understand. And the scrap of paper was a part of the bait?” Peter raised his hand as If to say that he wished to go on In his own way. "it was chance too that led me to the motive for ridding the world of Hennepin. That miserable man had I become a menace. He knew too much. He knew of a long series of embezzlements from a certain estate In Texas. A capitalist had bought vast quantities ; of something—on speculation—and his agent after his death deceived the executors as to the extent of his hold- I Ings. I have had a clew from an old account book sifted to the bottom." “And Jim Hennepin knew?" Knew and began a merciless blackmail, threatening ruin. I can see him now, Insatiable, hungry, losing in speculations, asking for more, hounding a man who was balancing between success and failure and always hinting at bankruptcy and the penitentiary.* I’eter went on. He told of the probability that Compton Pannalee, the hounded man, n physical coward, but resourceful and Ingenious, had come upon an old volume describing this lost city of the desert. There were tradl- > Hous of vast wealth hidden there. Pannalee had pretended to the possession of knowledge continuing it. He had shown old letters, the scrap of paper with the Kuk-ul-can symbol. He wanted to take the blackmailer to a place from which he would never come back. Io kill him?" asked Brena. “No.” replied Peter. “He hadn’t the courage. He feared that He feared the work. He feared the result He had a better way." 'And how?" she asked. 'lt is all there—here in the sand—a record," he said. “A ghastly record. Seven years have gone, but in this deep fine dust, Brena. there still remains the story.” He paused; he lit a cigarette; went on. He said, “There around the entrance are the marks of horses' hoofprints—almost lost—but still readable —three horses, two saddled and one carrying the packs. They came In two horses abreast, and the pack horse led behind. Two men in tl>e saddles. Night came on. One man slept. The other crept to the animals and he rode away." “Bode away? Left Jim Hennepin here?” "Y es, beyond hope—no horse, no water.” “How do you know?” "Because, Brena. when the three horses went out Into the desert their footprints are in single file—one man led the other two. I will show you. It Is in the sand—a record und a good guess.” He was silent and he broke his silence with a cry. “I can see him—Hennepin—awakening, realizing, seeing far away the little galloping specks In the pale moonlight with the treacherous man upon the leader —a tiny bobbing figure. I can hear the curses hurled after them. And he—the one left—alone under the moon, alone under the sun, alone un der the moon again—without a drop—rushing out into the desert, only to be driven back to the shade after weary marches dragging through the sand, hunting among the rocks, crazed with thirst, gone mad, cursing, hllttering : mad —his tongue black—the end—perhaps a thought of you—the cur!” He looked up at Brena; he set bls jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can see it so clearly—the terrible retribution In this place of silence. His screams echoing back from the rocks, his curses rising into this thin paleblue sky and the vultures swing overhead.” “Seven years ago,” she whispered. “Yes. seven years. And four years of torturing sea was the pay of the one who rode away.” "Compton Parma lee?” She said It without any external sign of emotion. “Yes.” said Peter. “He had succeed-

Hard to Get French to Leave Homeland

Vigorous nttempts continue to be made by the colonial ministry to encourage French emigration to the colonies. But In spite of colonial expositions and a deluge of literature and motion pictures descriptive of life in those parts of tbe world where France has territorial possessions, few French people have been induced to leave their beloved homeland. The attachment of the French to their soil is. Indeed, well known. They prefer making a mediocre living in their own country to prospects of wealth abroad. And not only Is the average Frenchman ioatb to leave his country, but seldom does he abandon his native town or village. There are peasants whose families have been on the same farms or tn the same districts for hundreds of years. A French writer has started Investigating how long certain peasant families have been in the same place and has found some interesting examples. Thus in the village of Jeannet. in Burgundy, a farmer named Sadler has authentic

ed In wiping out one blackmailer. But another, more terrible, sprang up—fear.” “He feared discovery?” “Yes, and something else. He could never feel sure that Hennepin was dead. That was the curse upon him — the fear the murderer feels, twisting and alternating with the fear of a physical coward who ever hears those threats, those curses, those promises of vengeance coming across the moonlit desert as he rode away that night.” She shuddered. “Yes,” said Peter. “That was why Parmalee destroyed the map. He had probably ridden back to some other settlement after shooting Hennepin’s horse in some gully and he wanted to wipe out all evidence. For months he resisted the temptation—that burned and scorched Inside—to see you.” “To find out whether I had been told anything about Hennepin's destination? And then when he wasn’t sure—when there was that scrap of paper not accounted so Peter, it "I Can See Him—Hennepin—Awakening, Realizing.” is too horrible; he proposed that strange marriage agreement In order to go away and take me with him. He was afraid I might remember some word —give some clew.” "No,” replied Peter. “It was that of course. But that was not all. The spark of real man that you saw tn him was there. Brena. Terror put It out at last, but the real tragedy of Parmalee was that he had that redeeming spark.” He watted for her to look up again; she bad been staring down at the yel-low-gray dust. “I suppose you can see,” he went on. “I sup[>ose you can see now what was In his mind. Two pictures. One was the picture of Jim Hennepin alive—that great muscular athlete who drank hard, who had the false traditions of the South, the love of death oaths, the degenerate temper, the sly Smiling ways of carrying a vengeance through. He saw him escaping from the desert. Brena—heaven knows how —but escaping by some desperate effort, some chance, some miracle, some way that Parmalee's brain could not conceive, but yet couldn't be put out of range of possibility. He saw Hennepin seeking him. Yes, he saw it —a picture—a thousand haunting pictures—Hennepin with his malicious, desperate, haunting eyes and his terrible muscles. He saw him smelling along the trail for his quarry. He saw him wa king about a quiet picture gallery, and. suddenly seeing your portrait and realizing that Parmalee had taken you. turn red with renewed wrath which would send him out for a knife.” “At last that Imaginary Hennepin became almost a reality," said Brena. “He shot at him once—at a reflection in a piece of glass. He kept Paul because Paul was a brute who would tight. He was afraid Hennepin would send some assassin to get employment as a servant. He never knew when Hennepin might come—and kill.” “But he saw the other picture too. He saw the buzzards hovering over what was left of Hennepin, he saw a whitened skeleton grinning up at the sunlit sky and at the stars. Brena. That’s what he saw. And some day some one would somehow come there. Perhaps some one had been there already. Perhaps at the very minute a prospector, dirty and unshaved, or some accursed archeological explorer from a university was in that very town where they had bought the horses and was telling of the skeleton and of finding the skeleton of the riderless horse with the bit still held between the white teeth. He might

records showing that the first Sadler began to till the soil of the farm in 1672 and it has been in bls family ever since. Valuable Air Cargoes Precious stones will be part us the cargo of the airplanes now ready to fly over the 1,100 miles of tropical jungle between Kushasha, the capital of the Belgian Congo, and Kutango, in the interior. No fewer than 25 airdromes and landing grounds have been built In the swamps and jungles around the Congo, providing a continuous chain of alighting grounds. The principal “cargoes” on the air route will consist of diamonds, gold aud ivory, which will be brought from the Interior to the capital in a single day instead of in a week as by present transport methods. Elephants of Africa do tremendous damage to native larma.

have that bit In bls pocket. Some one recognizes it. Somehow the chain once started never ends until —” “There comes a hand upon the shoulder,” said Brena. as if In a dream, “and a voice saying, ‘We have looked a long time for you.’ ” “Yes. There wasn’t one fear,” Peter said, marking two lines In the sand with his forefinger. “There were two fears. They fought each other and their battleground was Parmalee's soul. It was trampled into a wallow of terror, of questioning, of doubt. Do you know, Brena, that somehow there creeps into me a great pity for him?” “If he had been able to put his finger upon some button that would have blown him to bits he would have taken that way,” she said. “But he had an exaggerated instinct for selfpreservation. It threw him back from any approach to suicide.” Peter, getting up, came to her and put his hand upon her shoulder as If to give her strength. She had spoken with a voice too evenly measured to deceive him as to the strain she felt. It had been a long pull for her, he thought. The last steps, though they might lead out into the sunlight of freedom, were upon rough ground—rough even for a man. He was wondering how he could save her from pain. He wanted to have this surgery over, and to have it over there was only one way. “It was Inevitable that he would come here —in the end." he said. "He had to see. He had covered his terrors by a cowardly process of trying to make you believe that some mystery tliat ciung to you was the cause of them. He began to fear disclosure. He feared that he would allow you to know In some mad moment. He was coming to the end of his rope. “Yes. the end of his rope." Peter stopped and looked up at the ugly symbol of Kuk-ul-can carved on the rocks. "He procured a copy of Father Carlos’ map a second time, ’he said. He had to have It to find the way. After four terrible years he revisited the Pueblo Mescalero, two hundred miles from nowhere It called him back. He had to come." He stopped again, looking at Brena, whose palms were pressed against her knees, whose face with its wonderful profile was still held uplifted looking Into the vast distances of the desert, her lips closed, her eyes unseeing, like some carved diety who had been sitting thus for centuries. “He bought a high-powered car. Brena," said Peter. "And all alone he came.” "And where is he now?” cried out at last. In sudden disclosure of her pain. "Do you know? Where Is be now?" She looke-’ searchlngly at Peter’s sun-bronzed face, where upon the surface of youth lines of strength had been engraved by war. and lines of tenderness perhaps by a great new understanding of love and life. "He Is here again,” he answered. "He Is here. ... Do you understand?” CHAPTER XIX “I understand,” said Brena. “Then come with me,” Peter said, holding out his hands. “I will show you all that remains—the record—the story written on the sand and dust. He led her again toward the charred bones; he found no resistance In her. “Look there, Brena. Do you see the footprints? Here are yours and mine. But look again on the sand There are others, too. A thin veil of dust Is over them. They move here and there; they criss-cross and move away. They are the footprints of Compton Parmalee. He has come to stand gazing down at the white skeleton—white as oyster shells." “Blackened.” she said. “Walt!” Peter said. "There are the spots where he stood looking down. He had his answer; no living Jim Hennepin of Virginia would ever fill him with lead. And as he stood, Brena. perhaps gazing down for a Jong. long time —because his footsteps are lost in that stew of Impressions—he was filled with all the concentrated terror that I suppose only a murderer can know. He went Into a crazy wild panic of fear. These bones were his — the grinning skull. ‘They must be hidden.” "How do you know all this?" “Because he has moved toward this old well. He reached the stone well curb. He sprang up. Do you see the marks? He found the mouth choked with massive blocks. Nothing could be hidden there! His track moved back.” “Go on,” said Brena. (TO BE CONTINUED ) Dangers to Gems As pearls consist of carbonate of lime, vinegar and other acids will eat away the polished surface in a short time. Hot water is fatal to an opal, destroying Its fire aud sometimes cauß Ing it to crack. Soap Is a deadly enemy of the turquoise. If a turquoise ring is kept on the hand while wash ing. in a short time the blue stones will turn to a dingy green.—Popular Mechanics Magazine. Full Measure Judge Brown —Well, Ephraim, whai are you preaching to your flock tliese days? I hear you are making a might) stir. Ephraim —Well, stir, yassar I Is. I gives it to ’um this way: Fustly, : tells ’um what I’m gwine to tell 'um den I tells ’um what I said I wu. gwine to tell ’um den I tells ’um wba I done toie ’um. —Our Dumb Animaiz

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