COPYRIOHT WILLIAM M^CLIOD RAINI—WNU HRVICI
!
CHAPTER I
(In the old Western parlance the com
mendation, “He's a man to ride the river
with," uaj the highest possible praise. It
meant that one could be trusted in all
emergencies.)
Sun rays were streaming through
the mesqulte when Ruth rode out of
the arroyo. In the light of morning
the dust in the air from the desert
sand, finer than powdered sugar,
gave the atmosphere a faint rose
color.
Ruth Chiswick drew a deep
breath, almost a sigh. The desert
could show its teeth grimly, but it
cduld be poignantly lovely too. This
was her country. It held her by a
thousand ties, yet she was begin
ning to be afraid of the ruthlessness
that struck at life so savagely. All
plant and animal life had its sting.
Nothing survived without a strug
gle. Always the desert fought to
destroy.
Ruth was greatly worried. She
had gone such a little way in life,
was so inexperienced. At the part
ing of the ways, she die. not know
what to do. Her problems were
two, though they merged into one.
That her father lived in constant
danger from the lawless rustlers of
Tail Holt she knew. He took no
precautions. Instead of biding his
time until he could crush them he
bluntly defied and threatened. Some
day he would be dry-gulched from
the brush.
Though at times there was stormy
conflict between father and daugh
ter, the tie which bound them to
gether was very close. To Ruth
the peril in which ho stood had be
come an obsession. She must save
him at any cost, and she believed
she hnd found the way to do it. That
fat slug Sherman Howard was the
leader of the outlaws, yet kept with
in the law himself, as far as she
knew. If he gave the word for his
men to keep their hands off L C
stock the rustlers would obey him.
No longer would there be cause of
strife between these light-fingered
riders and Lee Chiswick.
And Sherman Howard had a son
who was no fat slug but a dark
handsome youth with a merry
laugh. Ruth liked Lou Howard very
much. He was wild, of course. She
did not know him well, and there
had been moments when there had
flashed out evidence of moral cal
lousness. So it had seemed, but al
ways afterward his warm smile had
banished doubts. He hnd given her
to understand that she was the one
woman with influence enough to
keep him straight, and she was
young enough to be attracted by
the thought of snatching so good
looking a brand from the burning
There was something romantic
about clandestine meetings with the
son of the enemy of her house.
She had flirted with a lot of boys
in an innocent way, but she did not
know anything about love—unless
the emotion she felt for Lou Howard
came under that category. At times
a strange feeling flooded her, al
most religious in its intensity, that
she had been appointed to save her
father by marrying this young man.
Lou was in her mind a great deal.
She was not sure about him.
The last time they had met he
had kissed her. Indignantly she had
pushed him away, but afterward
thinking of that ardent embrace
alone in her room—she knew her
indignation had been a fraud, She
had been chary of favors to boys.
None of them had ever kissed her
like that, with a fire which had
stirred in her reluctant response.
A young man rode out of the mes
quite and flung up a hand in greet
ing. She watched him as he can
tered forward, flung himself from
the saddle, and strode to meet her.
A queer little thrill ran through her,
and after it a t’emor of fear. He
was essentially a stranger, as many
men are to the giris who marry
them, yet it was likely he was go
ing to be the most important person
in her life.
"I was afraid you wouldn’t
come,” he said, and kissed her
hand.
Ruth took it away, embarrassed.
Hand-kissing on the frontier was
something alien. "I said I would be
here,” she reminded him.
"So you did.” He looked at her
eagerly, boyishly. "Is it going to
be yes?”
She nodded. "I think so."
He reached up to help her from
the horse, but she shook her head.
“No, I can’t stay but a minute.”
“You can rest yore saddle that
minute, can’t you, honey?"
The girl knew what he wanted,
to take her in his arms and make
love to her. She discovered that
she did not want hiro to do that—
not yet, at least. Wrtil she knew
him better she did n*t want to be
kissed, not with urgent passion.
“No. I slipped away, and I have
to get back. They’ll rfiiss me." She
asked, abruptly, a wave of color
In her cheeks, "Are vou sure you
still . . . want me?’1
“Cf course I do." lie frowned up
at her, irritated. He hau ridden
80 miles to meet her Vid she held
him at arm’s knglfe. “But get
down and let ui talk, Ruth. U
we’re going to get married—”
"I don’t know you, and you don’t
know me," she Interrupted. "
" 'Course I know you," he de
nied. "You’re the prettiest girl In
the county. I know all about you,
and you know about me. I’m wild
about you. What’a the sense In sit
ting up there like—like the Queen of
Sheba?”
Very likely he was right. Ruth
had been brought up In a houseful
of men without the guidance of a
mother. She slipped from the sad
dle and stood beside him.
He took her in his arms and she
submitted, withholding herself.
Presently she drew back from his
embrace. That he wes dissatisfied
with her lack of response she knew.
"Be patient with me—at first,"
she begged. "I’m worried, Lou. I
“Some hot on the desert,” the
storekeeper suggested.
don't know whether what we are
going to do is right. I—I—I'm
scared."
Promises poured out of him. He
would make her happy. He would
reconcile their fathers. There
would no longer be war or. the
range. Forgetting all the other girls,
he would make her the best hus
band in the territory. All she had
to do was to trust him and he would
fix it. She must not worry.
Yet she did worry, even as they
made the arrangements for the
elopement. The weight was still in
her breast as she rode back up the
arroyo. The sun was hot in the
coppery sky. From the far canyons
the mist had vanished. Harsh and
forbidding stretched the grim des
ert, all its sharp teeth showing.
Into Tail Holt, near the close of a
hot day, rode a man on a long
barreled roan.
The rider dismounted at a store
which carried on the false front a
sign, "Yell Sanger, General Mer
chandise." He dropped the reins at
a hitchrack and looked up and down
the street to orient himself. Through
the hazy amber light of late after
noon he sa w Tail Holt drowse in a
coma of sunshine. A man was cross
ing the street from one saloon to
another. Otherwise the place ap
peared to be deserted, except for
half a dozen cow-ponies drooping at
the hitchrack of Curt Dubbs’ Golden
Nugget, saloon and gambling-house.
Four saloons, a blacksmith shop,
another general store, a Chinese
restaurant, a shoemaker’s cubby
hole, and a public corral were
checked off by the stranger. Lei
surely he turned and walked with
trailing spurs into Sanger's store.
In addition to Sanger, who was a
bald-headed little fellow with black
gimlet eyes, two cowboys were in
the place. They were lounging
against a counter. Conversation
ceased at the entrance of the new
comer. All three gazed at him.
They saw a crook-nosed man of
middle size with a leathery brown
face In which were set light gray
eyes, from the corners of which ra
diated many tiny wrinkles. He
might be thirty years old, perhaps
a year or two less. His move
ments had a kind of rippling ease
and he carried himself with an as
surance almost Insolent. When he
took off hia dusty hat he showed a
thick head of hair burnt sorrel by a
thousand untempered suns. He wore
shiny leathers and high-heeled
boots, an open vest, no coat. A gun
hung low on hia thigh, well forward.
A tough hombre, it could be
guessed, able to take care of him
self in any emergency.
F'rom a throat caked with alkali
dust the traveler said hoarsely, ‘‘To
mato airtight."
Sanger Blushed open a can with a
hatchet.
"Some hot on the desert,” the
storekeeper suggested.
The crook-nosed man drank the
juice from the can, then Ashed out
a tomato. “Some,” he assented. "I
got to thinkin’ if Tail Holt was
any farther ofl it must be near
somewhere.”
Experimentally, one of the cow
boys murmured, "You come quite
a ways?”
The crook-nosed man looked at
him. Apparently this did not call
for an answer. "Yes, sir, hot and
dry,” he drawled, after shifting
his gaze to Sanger.
"That’s right," the second cow
boy agreed. He was a long-legged
man with a lank lower Jaw.
"Sure is,” his companion said.
“Well, I’ll be moseyin’, Mile High."
"Yo tambien, Sid," the tall man
concurred promptly, unwinding to
his full height. "I'll take a plug of
Horse-Shoe, Sanger."
He followed Sid from the build
ing.
"Town kinda quiet,” the stranger
said.
"Liable to liven up later," Sanger
told him.
From where he sat on a counter
the man with the sorrel-top could
see the two cowboys looking at his
horse. Words drifted to him.
"Double cinch—Texas man," Mile
High hazarded.
"Yep, No tenderfoot." Sid rolled
a cigarette.
"Not none. Plenty tough." The
tall man said something more, in a
low voice.
Sid laughed, harshly. “1 wouldn't
know."
They bowlegged across the road
to the Golden Nugget.
"Tail Holt takes notice of a stran
ger," the newcomer mentioned dryly.
Sanger did not answer. His small
black eyes were taking In with a
vast surprise two people who had
come Into the store.
"Evening, Miss Chiswick—Lou,"
he greeted them.
The man he had called Lou drew
the storekeeper aside for a whis
pered conference. He was wearing
new corduroys, fancy top-boots, an
expensive sombrero, and a purple
silk shirt around the neck of which
was tied loosely a polka-dot ban
danna. On his dark, handsome face
there was just now a sulky look. In
one keen glance the crook-nosed
man sized him up as a showy, raff
ish fellow with no bottom.
The girl held a greater interest.
She had, he guessed, an exciting
personality. In her dark, stormy
eyes was the threat of passion.
A snatch of the low-voiced con
versation came to the stranger.
"... have Spicer meet us at
Ma Presnall's boarding-house and
do the job . . . want to get to
Tough Nut before night."
Gretna Green business, of course.
Bad medicine for the girl. Prob
ably she was an undisciplined lit
tle devil, but she was too fine of
grain for the man with whom she
was eloping. Sardonically Crook
nose added a stipulation. Very like
ly he was letting her glamorous,
troubled beauty sway his judgment.
"Are you expecting to spend the
day here?” she asked her compan
ion, and her voice had in it the sing
ing sting of a small whiplash.
"I'm fixing things up with Sanger,
Ruth," the young man answered ir
ritably. "Can’t do it any faster."
The girl did not reply. She brushed
back Impatiently a tendril that had
escaped from the soft waves of dark
hair disordered by her long ride.
A fusillade of shots came from
the street. The three men moved
swiftly to the door. A rider was
galloping down the dusty road, re
volver in hand, waving a hat in the
air.
"Hl-yi! Whoopee! Git outa the way
of Wild Jim Pender," he yelled.
"Pender on a drunk again,”
Sanger said. "He’s a terror when
he has tanglefoot aboard . . . He’s
headin’ back down the street . . .
Lordee, he's cornin’ in!"
“Hunt cover, Ruth,” her young
man shouted, and vaulted over a
counter. "Back here. Quick."
An arm of the stranger went
round the waist of the girl, swept
her up the store, and flung her down
behind some sacks of potatoes.
The drunken man drove his horse
into the store. “ 'Lo, Sanger, you
old son-of-a-vinegarcon. where are
you? I want cartridges—pronto."
(TO BE COM TINVED)
Window Washer’s Job Is Risky; Worker
Can Clean Ten to Fifteen in an Hour
_
All skyscraper windows aren’t
"architect's nightmares," and not
all window washing is done in sub
freezing weather. Usually the clean
er climbs out on a reasonably wide
sill with a rubber squeegee and a
wet chamois, snaps his safety belt
hooks into the little steel rings the
builders put in the window frames
for that purpose, and In a few quick
swipes is ready to climb back in
side and begin all over on the next
one.
To hold his Job, says a writer in
the Washington Star, a window
cleaner must keep moving. A good
worker can average 10 windows an
hour, or 80 a day; the topnotchers
even wash 15 windows every hour I
For thus risking his life, he may
receive from $38 to $45 for a 40
hour week where union wages pre
vail, and bis average age of useful
ness in tho business runs from
about twenty-two to forty.
Dangerous? Yes, though most
window cleaners seldom think of
that—or they probably wouldn’t be
window cleaners! Their employer*
pay as much as a dollar a day to in
sure each worker’s life, and it is
the insurance company which does
everything humanly possible to
make the cleaner’s calling a safer
one. Inspectors regularly test the
metal rings into which the safety
belt hooks are fastened. These rust
away in old buildings and result in
more falls than any other cause.
Sometimes a near-tragedy in a
window cleaner’s life turns out to be
funny. One worker recently got
hia name in the papers when his
safety belt gave way on a third
story window and he fell to tha
ground without suffering a scratch.
He got up, brushed off his clothes,
stopped at tho office for a new belt
and climbed out to finish the win
dow.
A hero? He’d be the last one to
think so. To a window cleaner,
taking hazardous risks is all in tho
day’s work.
A NEW SERIAL BY
William MacJ. *leoo l /Qaine
STARTING IN TODAY'S ISSUE!
Today you’ll meet beautiful Ruth Chiswick, living quiet
ly on her father’s ranch but destined for the biggest
adventure that ever befell a girl! Soon you’ll meet the
mysterious Jeff Gray, a gallant horseman who appeared
from nowhere to become the greatest enigma of modern
Arizona. You’ll follow Jeff and Ruth with intense inter
est as they follow an adventure-studded trail to love.
You’ll be amazed at the undeserved faith Ruth places
in this man, a would-be killer, a cattle rustler, an enemy
of justice. But in the end, you’ll agree “To Ride the
River With” is a sensational serial story! START
READING IT TODAY!
HOW” SEW “s&"
A LETTER come# from a read
er enclosing rough sketches of
atltches from a silk patchwork
quilt. She writes, “I Inherited this
quilt from a great aunt and it is
the Anal touch of luxury in my
guest room. It never occurred to
me that I could make one like it
until I saw your article about
patchwork stitches In the paper.
I am following your advice about
using an old wool blanket as a
foundation—only I am using the
best parts of several worn blan
kets. I plan to join the blanket
sections with whipped seams and
then arrange my Anal patches
along the joinings."
Depend upon a modern home
maker to figure out efficiency
methods! And here are the
stitches she sends. The many
hued silk, satin, and velvet pieces
are first pinned or basted to the
foundation with lapped edges
turned as shown here. If you
would like to know how to make
more of the fascinating stitches
used to sew the pieces In place,
you will find them in the new
book offered below. Be among
the first of your friends to make
one of these gay quilts. It is the
smart thing to use one anywhere
that you would U3e an afghan.
Collecting and arranging the lux
urious bits of silk and inventing
new embroidery stitch combina
tions is just about the most ex
citing of all the new revivals of
Victorian home arts.
NOTE: Mrs. Spears’ latest bock
on SEWING—Gifts and Embroid
ery—is now ready. Ninety em
broidery stitches are illustrated;
abo table settings, crochet; em
broidery designing; fabric repair
ing; novelty gifts and dress ac
cessories. Forty-eight pages of
step-by-step directions. Available
to readers who will send name
and address and enclose 25 cents
(coin preferred). Just address
Mrs. Spears, 210 S. Desplaines St.,
Chicago, 111.
--
Scattered Alumni
There are 71,757 alumni of Har
vard university living in eighty
four countries.
_
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