HIS FRIEND'S TREACHERY.

Hastings Standard, Volume XII, Issue 60164, 2 January 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

HIS FRIEND'S TREACHERY.

HALLOA ! Whatever brings you bo far off the beaten track as this

asked the bar-tender, as Roddy Gillman entered the saloon at Fir Creek. "Oh, my friend here," indicating Harding, " is a tenderfoot from England doing the Western States. lie has heard much about this particular locality. and thought he d like to come out and have a look round." " Well, if he wants a taste of the oldfashioned West, he couldn't have come to a more suitable spot. The boys who hang out round here are the roughest crowd north oii the Line. They 11 raise Cain on the slightest provocation," declared the attendant, with questionable pride. "I'm aware of it," smiled Gillman. " Nor could he have come at a likelier time," continued the other. "They've been rounding up on the Deer Bend Ranch tor branding, and have just finished, so we're expecting Hetstone'e gang down on us at any moment. Here they too, by all that s \*ickill? man's lafct words were almost drown- d by *-he sound of galloping. C-Llman and Harding ran to the door, :.ad saw a little army of bronzed cowboys thundering down the rough street at a reckless, breakneck gallop, firing thpir revolvers in the air and giving vent to wild cries of greeting as they came. By common consent they reined in at the door of the saloon, pullimi up their horses so suddenly that the stones flew about in a shower. One of the more turbulent spirits rode up the steps into the bar, scattering Gillman and Harding to right and left. He called for a glass of "that, and indicated the liquor by shooting the neck off B bottle of whisky. Having had his drink he rode out again to fasten up his horse, while his companions swarmed into the place, calling for their various refreshments in the expressive vernacular of the West. -Harding, to whom this phase of liie was a revelation, stood aside, watching tho scene with intense interest. Faces handsome and ugly were here, faces young and faces disfigured by various vices, faces kind and cruel. "Surelv von haven't left Beau behind?" remarked the bar-tender, when he had time to note the absentees. "Yen bet: Beau led the wav as usual, bnt his horse got a stone in his hoof or something." Presently a rich, clear voice burst into song outside—a song rarely heard in that wild quarter:— Love for a year—a month—a day. But. alas for the love that loves "Bv Heaven, I'd know that voice among a million!" cried Harding, in a subdued tone, as he gripped his companion's arm. , "It's Jimmy Beaufort, beyonu a doubt " said Gillman, as much surprised at his friend s excitement as at coming across Beaufort m that particular 6P The singer entered—a man tanned, and handsome. carelessly up to the bar o. a drink. Lifting it to his lip*, he looked round upon his companions. ,1 " Boys, - he began, then stopped dead bU eves riveted upon Harding. A herce exclamation escaped him ht ' irn glass and his hand tell to his hip fceenlv alert, was too quick for him. and had has weapon levelled before the other could draw. "Don't move, Beaufort! covered!" he cried. "What's the flare? "Put that question to the hound be-, hind you." Beaufort passionately retort-,

What does he mean, asked Gillwan, addressing his triend s llal P~ ly, but still keeping a steady eye ou the dangerous man before him. •'Heaven knows—l don t, was " i'ou do know, too, you liar - Beaufort savagely cut in- " And look here, Gillnian, thk» is no i. flair ot youra. lou stand clear and let us settle the matter ourselves. Harding doesn t need shepherding ; ho can shoot as straight as 1 CS " But what's the row?" reiterated Gil!man, wary as ever. "Haiuing Kuo'ts, iusut<~d Beaufoit. "And it he s tool euougti to run atiiw «rt mv patn atier what he's done, he niust put up Willi the consequences. He s a waitorous blackguard, and iII yii'U him at sight it he slinks a tair hght. He can take it that I'll never lea re bis trar again till I've put a bullet througn While speaking, Beaufort had managed to get iiis teeimgs under control, but the cold relentlessness in every syllable of his final threat would have sent a quiver of itar into the heart ot a man less brave than Harding va.s utterly mysterSed, ana blamed himself tor consenting to sho» Harding round the notorious inr Creek. He felt personally responsible for l is protege's safety, -and adopted the course best calculated to insure it. " You make tracks, Harding, while 1 keep this fool covered,"' he said. "Thanks. I prefer to tee the joke through," was the sarcastic reply, and drawing his revolver Harding stepped forward. There was a general reaching tor weapons among the crowd at his action. But Gilliiiau quickly calmed the rising storm. " it's all right, boys," he declared, putting away his weapon. 'lf he will rush on destruction, that's his lookout.* ' . ,cii At that the prospect ot a general agut faded away. , "I've an objection to being shot in the back,"' said Harding to Beaufort ; "so; if you're determined to fight, I suppose I must. But, surely I' in entitled to know what it's all about' - ' Beaufort smiled contemptuously. "Of course, your fastidious scruples shall be satisfied," he cynically promis<>d. "I'm no more a murderer than you. Put away your shooter and coine up to my shanty. I'll produce evidence to convince any man that you deserve to be shot at «ight." Turning away, he beckoned to one of lib comrade*, and, accompanied by Gillman and Harding, the two left the saloon. 11. The little party rode rapidly for eome mites np the valley at the head of Fir Creek, reaching at last the steep slope rising to Deer Bend Ranch. Here the! trail narrowed down and the men went I two by two. I " What on earth has the fellow done to make yon feel so furious towards him?" asked the cowboy of Beaufort. > They were leading, and the pace for the j first time permitted conversation. "What has h® done?" the other repeated. "I'll tell you, though I've never mentioned it to anyone before. "Some years ago I fell in love with a young lady way back in England. Promotion runs slow in the old country, and I always detected the pen-driving drudgery of my father's office, so I came <yrt to California and took np frnitfarmine with a chum. Wei were not short of money, eo we soon got a pretty fair pfiw together, and di-wtly f saw

home and asked the girl to become my j wife. She consented, and last fall I was j to have home to bo married. "Then what do you think happened? That hound behind was my friend. We went to school and college together, fought and played together, and chummed together when wo were men. .Naturally I told him of my good luck out hero and at home. He wrote and congratulated me and—married the girl to whom I was engaged two months before the date fixed for my wedding." The cowboy muttered something under his breath and Beaufort continued"Can you wonuur at the way I greeted him ? ~ If he's fool enough to cross my path out here", where we can meet ma v. to. man, he must expect the reward his treachery deserves. If he has a good and sufficient reason for what lie has done, he should thank his starts, !'y if be hasn't I'll shoo.t him with as iitt*" compunction as I would a rattler!" "But there's the girl/ 1 ur<wd U<> cowboy. A man may cut himself apart from all the old ties, but he rarely succeeds m really killing the gentleman within. T!>°> unexpected happens, and suddenly, by a word, perhaps, as in the present ca.se, he stands revealed as a man apart from the crowd with whom he is herding and to whose level he has tried to bring himself down.

"Yes. there's tho girl," Beaufort bitterly agreed. "A girl false as Tildas! She shall receive the consideration due to her. She has helped to make me what I am—a drunken scamp. When I found out what they had done, I could not stay on the farm. I had planned everything about it with a view to her comfort, and now it all seemed to remind me of her and of her deceit. "I left it all and came out here to drown thought with HeLstone's reckle.ss, devil-may-care cowboys. You may think me a coward for dropping the reins of self-restraint, but you can't understand unless you've been through the mill." "I think I can/' said the cowboy, quietly. The two men halted at the door of Beaufort's shanty and dismounted, the two behind following their example dirctlv afterwards

"Now, you fellows," said Gillman, assuming control of affairs when they got inside, " let's discuss matters calmly. Don't- start shooting each other till you know what you're doing it for." "'That's ■easily explained," replied Beaufort, outwardly calm, though sternly determined as ever. "I think Harding will admit that I informed him of tho engagement between Mina Weldon and myself, and that ho sent to congratulate me." Harding nodded "Tliere von are, Gillman; he knew all about it. He stands self-condemned, a traitor to his friend. Look here!" Beaufort swung round and pointed to a picture nailed on the wall —a half page cut from a paper.

"See that? And the cur says lie does not know why he should fight!" lie cried, his temper rising again. The picture was a reproduction of the photographs of Harding and a lady. Beneath them were the words. " Harding—Weldon Wedding,"' then the names of the bride and bridegroom. •'That's the girl I was to lirve married. I came, out here and worked early and late to make a home for her Then, while I was back East on business about a year ago, I came across paper from home. I couldn't believe it at first, but I happened to meet a follow who knew Harding and my,self, and before I could ask him he told me of thf* wedding. Even then I was doubtful, but when, in reply to my inquiries, Inassured ine that the girl Harding had married was Mina Weldon, of Graham House, Marlow, I could doubt no longer. '"I can't explain how I felt; and it it doesn't matter much now. I sent to my partner in California, and instructed him to send back, unopened, ancommunication that might have come for me from Harding or Miss Weldon. Then, after running riot in New York for a spell, I came out here. I kepi that picture so that I should not forget how great a traitor a man can be to his friend.

"These marks,"' he concluded, pointing to several indentations in the forehead of the man's photo, "are bulletholes. and I've sworn to serve the original the same!"' Harding had listened patiently to the other's story. He crossed over and regarded the photos closely for a few seconds, then turned to Beaufort. " The mystery would have been solved long ago had" you not allowed your passion to run away with you. Letters explaining it were returned to their senders unopened " "There can bo no explanation," Beaufort Tapped out, with some heat. " Restrain yourself, old man," interposed the cowboy. "Let the fellow speak." "The explanation is simple," insisted Harding, coolly. "Your sweetheart's photo was published in mistake for my wife's." " But the names?" "The girls are cousins and their nanus* are the same, as is so frequently the case."

"And their addresses, I suppose? ' questioned Beaufort, sarcastically, still presenting an incredulous front. Harding nodded and went on. ■ Sir John Weldon, of Graham House, and his brother Henry, the father ot the girl I loved, had quarrelled, and had not been on speaking terms for years- thus, while knowing one family, you were ignorant of the other's existence. Though not nearly so rich as Sir John, Heneiy was supposed to be fairly well off—so well off in fact that, dearly as I loved his daughter, I felt convinced that it would be useless to enter the liats aginst the wealthier leilows who were paying her attenwn. • Suddenly her lather died and the bubble of riches buist. He was in reality a poor man. Indeed, when he had been buried and affairs settled, Mnia found that she and her mother were in very straitened circumstances. At this juncture Sir John sank all past differences, admitted that lie had been_ a fool, and bogged d«>ad brother's wife and daughter to come and live with him and his daughter at Mar low, and so give him a chance of making some slight reparation for the past. They thankee' him and went. "Mina's changed prospects proved my opportunity. Her suitors fell away and I proposed. She accepted me, and agreed when I pressed for an immediate marriage. The wedding took place at Marlow and the reception at Graham Ifou-p. That probably accounts for the mistake of the man you met in New York. ho told yon that it wae Mina Weldon of Graham Hone who was married.

"A representative of the paper froi ,1 which that picture v.as cut asked f< photos of the bride and bridesmaid.: and on publication it was found thai thev had given the wrong Mina a* bride." They apoligised for the erro: and corrected it in the next issue: bniit should have deceived- no one, for their account of the weddinsr was finite correct, The bride ■was distinctly stated to be the dan«rht£r of Henry Weldon, .*nd von know 'vonr sweetheart/ is the daughter of Sir John." J " f dwf not read the noffce." paid

■he lw' y+*i spokjen. " When I saw those piioios 1 tuink 1 went —a little uiaU-'' • If jou i<-t your anger sweep away yotir reason in that lashion you have only yourself to thank tor any resulting trouble," said Harding, severely. For a snort whue Beaufort stood motionless and speechless in the middle of tno room, deep in tnought, and evidently*l trying to grasp the situation. "And what oi -Van?" he asked, at length. "How is she? Where is she?" " Sne is quite well, and with my wife down at Gillman's place." Beaufort paced the floor, his brows puckered into an agitated frown. "Is it- too late?" he muttered, more to himself than the others- "Is it too late'."' "I think she still cares for you," answered Harding. "But you must see that returning her letters unopened, without a word of explanation, might well have brought about a change in her feelings.'* " For a year I've been on the downward path, going ever faster and faster," Beaufort went on. " Have 1 gone too far to pull up? It is too late —too late?" His agitation was intense—almost painful. Presently he turned to Harding and Gillman. "Boys, you must leave me," he said. "I've an uphill battle to fight before I can return to civilisation. If I win, I'll turn up on tho "farm all right. If I

Ii;. { shall never come back —I couldn't lac.The cit-ii saw the wisdom of this fvn'.rjjf, i ; :uado 110 attempt to dissiimi« ban from it. At the door he put hi.s hand oat hesitatingly, and his face !>riacl.t<jntd perceptibly when Harding ciMitrht it in a warm clasp. i'ou'li forgive me for thinking as I did iilwiit you":'' he begged. 1 !:creV nothing to forgive, my dear ' repiiod Harding. ■ .\ud you won't let her know —quite hov !«;-•> -I've sunk?" I*• i say no more than necessary." I » , i iort >tood and Pitched the men iiii UifV s-ire 0..t oi siht, wondering how long it would be before he could follow them. 111. It was only when lie began to fight it that Beaufort realised . how £«ice a grip had been fastened upon him by the vice in which he had sought to drown his trouble. Again and again, during the first day or two of his struggle, the rebellious longing almost broke.down his iron resolve. And even now he admits that if help had not come, to liim in his weakest moment he would never have won through. , . . On the .second .afternoon "of his fight the cowboys swarmed into his cabin, on their return from a carouse at Fir Creek, bringing; bottles of whisky with them. Drink was pressed upon him from every side, but he steadily refused it —a course which provoked still more urgent invitations. The men laughed at his repeated commands to clear out,, but at last agreed to go if he woul<l take one drink with them. The craving, for the spirit was strong upon him, and he consented. He had barely raised tho liquor to his.lips, however, when a timid- pleading voice sou tided from the doorway :—■

"Jack—Jack (" He set the can down upon the table and wheeled round"Great heavens, Mill!" lie hoarsely exclaimed. He stood a moment* staggered by-the appearance of a slight; girlish figure. He stepped outside to her and saw, a little distance away, Gillman with Harding and his wife. "This is no place for vott, girl," said Beaufort, after a 6hort silence. " Nor for you." was the reply-. "Perhaps not," he admitted; "but it's the only one-forme till I'm sure of myself." "They tell me you are making a fight to get back into the right path. Why stay here in the midst of temptation to fail?" she asked. "What can I doi^' "Leave it all. Come back with us, back to your right place in the world, and to those who are waiting to help yon." "Will you help me? Will you let me come back to the place where our paths parted? Do you mean that?" he inquired, resisting with difficulty the desire to take her in his arms. "I think I'm almost asking you to do it," she said, very quietly. 'And you'll forgive me?" "Need you ask that?" Beaufort went back into the shantv. "Good-bye, boys!" lie cried, with the reliant ring of bvgone days in his tones. "I'm cutting this business and going back to the old life." Th*» man whom he liad chosen to M.U r- by him in his quarrel with Hard- ': • ime forward •It's a long time since I met a woTi.i , <f my—a lady," he said, halt in.el v. • ould like once more to shakf hands . <»ne —if Do you think she—'" v; * iltered like a child, and stopped ai^Hrnly. 7 r L.ng him across to the girl Beanfort 'ntrodoced him. The cowboy took her readily-extended- ha-nd -in his great bronztd one. removed his battered sombrero. bowed with a grace that sooke elogaSptig- of different surroundings.

"I hope you are going to be very happy," he said, looking tenderly down at her. . Then, though his heart was in his throat as the little party rode away, he led a rousing cheer for Beau and his sweetheart.