A FEW BARS IN THE KEY OF G.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 14250, 22 December 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

A FEW BARS IN THE KEY OF G.

BY CLIFTON CA

IT was two o'clock, and time for the H third watch on the night-herd. pi These two facte gradually impress|J[ ed themselves on the consciousness of John Talbot Waring, as ho was thumped into 7 wakefulness by the Mexican " horsewrangler." Disentangling himself from hie dump blankets, he sat up and groped for his boots, meanwhile viewing with that .trange satisfaction which misery finds in companionship the rough pounding process which was being repeated upon the mummylike figure by his side. The dim light of the smoky lantern swinging from the ridge-pole of the dripping tent revealed the rolled-up forms of , dozen audibly slumbering cow-punchers, crowded together like sardines in a box; it also made visible an expression of disml on the features of Mr. Waring, while failing completely to disclose the whereabouts of his missing boots. The sense or. touch, however, presently located them lyjjg.ia a little puddle near the tent-flap, and their owner was immediately engrossed in the back-breaking task of forcing his iwollen feet into the sodden leather. "Seems to me, Jack, you ought to know enough to take your boots to bed with you," remarked his neighbour, " Slim" Caywood, as he complacently produced his own high-heeled pair from their dry nest. "That mornin" last week up on the Pass, then you had to do a war dance in the mow while they was thawin' out, don't i leem to have learned you nothin'." ! Waring paused in his struggle long ! enough to express, in a few well-chosen words, his opinions of boots in general f and his own wet ones in particular. This j relief to his feelings seemed to endow him with renewed strength, for, after a .few i more violent contortions, he accomplished I la purpose, and unrolling his " slicker, | which had been serving temporarily as a pillow, enveloped himself in its clammy HAs, and followed his tall fellow-victim 1 of stern duty out" into the drizzling ram. ! Here was a moon above the heavy | clouds, but it might as well have been on ' the other side of the earth for all the iissktance it gave in the operation of (saddling two picketed horses. The herd lay to the north of the camp, and settling reluctantly into their soggy seats, the drowsy riders turned their horses in that direction, trusting to the instinct of the animals to I find the cattle. The darkness was intense, I and the wiry little beasts were obliged to ; (pick their way cautiously over the rough | ground lying between the camp and the I (pot where the herd had been bedded down" for the night. Presently the sound of a hoarse voice I tunefully raised in a dismal minor melody came faintly to their ears, and as they 5 scared the singer they became aware that lie was entreating the public to "take him 1 tothe graveyard, and place a sod o'er him varying the monotony of .this request by I begging someone to " bury him not on the lone prairie." The effect of this mournful niu«ic was indescribably gruesome, and WarI ing found himself wondering with considerII able * impatience why cow-punchers invari--1 ably choose such gloomy themes for their |; songs,- and then set them to the most p funereal tunes imaginable. fJ Approaching carefully to avoid startling i| the cattle, the two riders separated, and 111 relieving the tired watchers, commenced || their dreary three hours' vigil, on oppo* |i lit® sides of the herd. Tho cattle were unusually quiet, .needing little attention, ! and Waring had .needing little attention, and Waring had ample opportunity to re|j fleet on the disadvantages of a cow- || puncher's life, as he rode slowly along the H edge of the black mass of sleeping ani- | Jrfs. The rain dripped from the limp II Witt of his sombrero, and ran in little I streams from the skirts of his oilskin coat into hie already soaking boots. The chill | *ind, sweeping down from the mountains, ft pierced his damp clothes, and made him || shiver in the saddle. For the hundredth 1 time within a week Waring condemned | himself as an unutterable ass for relin- ,, Hushing the comforts of civilisation for j this hard life among the rough and dan- »}■' prone slopes of Colorado. J He recalled his arrival on the range ■jiii 'ix months before, a " tenderfoot," and the various tribulations he had endured r incident to his transformation into a fullfledged cow-puncher. He remembered , ' "ith a smile the painful surprise occasionii ■ td by his first introduction to a pitching I horse. Of the hardships and dangers > w bich come to every rider of the range |! had experienced his share, and faced £r. them bravely, thereby winning the respect |',i; .the rough, lion-hearted men among 8 tt hom he had cast his lot. • II a tl the weary months had : been II 'he had failed in his object;- he II forget. He was not the first to 111 !«Wn - that one cannot escape memory |i., merely by crossing the continent. I But seemed weary months instead of *isted; he had failed in his object; he """Id not forget. He was not the first to k&ni that one cannot escape memory Merely by crossing the continent. even seemed to him that, instead of 11 Pawing more endurable with time, the Hi ,o |*®ess'in his heart and the sting of reH W increased with every passing day. He lf| *°ndered if she felt the separation; if !| 'to cared. As his thoughts wandered I ®&ck over the past two years, he recalled ! ®' w y incident of their acquaintance as Iwtinctly as though it had occurred but Si: J«terday. The day ho had first seen her, * she stepped gracefully out beside the I' * she stepped gracefully out beside at--1 feo to sing, at a musicale he hac' atI Wded—the song she had sung ijf: The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Is: Are as a string: of pearls to me— H jj* sweet days which followed—their enUS together of symphony, oratorio, |H opera, for both being amateurs of no' 3 ability, 4 they had met (and loved) If if° n the comi n«n ground of their love of Witt© harmony,, g litil® harmony

RLISLE OSBORNE.

He looked ..into the blackness of the night, and could see her as she appeared on that wonderful day when he had met her at the altar of Trinity Church, and spoken the words that were to bind them together through life. How beautiful she was, and how proud he had been of her as they walked down the broad aisle and out into tho brilliant June sunshine, followed by the grand chords of Mendelssohn's masterpiece. He looked back at their wedding trip as at a beautiful dream. The noble mountains of New Hampshire seemed to have been created as a setting for their happiness; the great hotels only to cater to their pleasure. How well he remembered the return to the lovely homo he had prepared for her, and the first , dear days within its walls. How happy they had been, and how he had loved her! Had loved her? He did love her. That was his sorrow. He realised that as long as he had life his whole heart would be hers. And then the shadow had come over their home. He asked himself bitterly why he had not been more patient with her, and made allowances for her high spirit and quick temper. She was such a child. He could see now that he had been to blame many times in their quarrels, when at the time he had sincerely believed himself in the right. Should ho go back to her, and admit that he had been wrong? Never! The memory of that last day was too clear in his mind. The words she had spoken in the heat of her anger had burned themselves into his soul, and could not be forgotten. Waring straightened in the saddle, and the hot blood rushed to his face. He wondered now that he had been able to answer her so calmly. He recalled every word he had said:

" Your words convince me that we cannot live together any longer. I will neither forget nor forgive them. I am going away. You are at liberty to sue for a divorce, if you care to do so. Three years, I believe, is the time required to substantiate a plea of desertion." That was all. Without another word he had left her, standing white and motionless in the centre of her dainty chamber, and gone from the beautiful home in whitehot rage, to come out here to the wildest spot he could find, and plunge into the perilous life he was leading, m the vain effort to forget. Ho pulled down the dripping brim of his sombrero to shelter his face from the stinging . : wind, and resolutely turned his thoughts in other directions. He speculated vaguely on the condition of his considerable property, and wondered indifferently how his agents were managing it.. His friends at the clubs—did they miss him? From them his thoughts strayed to the strange postal card he had received the day previous, and he began to j puzzle his brain in the effort to decide who had sent it, and what it could mean. It had been directed in care of his attorney, and forwarded by the lawyer to the remote mountain post office where Waring received his mail. It was an ordinary postal card, . its peculiarity consisting in the fact that the communication on the back was composed not of words, but music—four measures in the key of G. This was the message:

Ho had hummed the notes over and over, and though they had a strangely familiar sound, yet he could not place the fragment, nor even determine the composer. His failure to decipher the enigma annoyed him. It had a meaning, of that he was convinced, but what could it be? Who could have sent it? Among his friends were many musicians, any one of whom might have adopted such a method of communicating with him. He began to hum the phrase, as he rode round and round the cattle. . The wind was dying out, and the rain | had ceased. On the eastern mountain tops a faint rose tint was dimly visible; another hour of monotonous watching, ; and then for a hot breakfast beside the camp-fire. Waring, abandoning the riddle of the postal, began to sing to pass the time, and his rich baritone rang out above the sleeping > herd. The light stole slowly over the peaks, and chased the shadows from the plain. The camp awoke, and the men crawled shivering from the tent. The cook's fire whirled showers of sparks aloft. One by one the cattle stirred, rose, and commenced to graze. Waring still sang, carelessly passing from snatches of opera to lines of sacred harmony. Suddenly, while in the midst of a passage from one of the great works of a master composer, he stopped short in surprise. He was singing the notes on the card! It had come to him like a flash. He tore open his coat and drew the postal from an inner pocket. There was no mistake. He had solved the mystery. Almost mechanically he reached for a pencil, and wrote the words under the lines of music, added a signature, and gazed long and earnestly, his face a perfect kaleidoscope of changing expressions; then, with a wild shout, he wheeled his horse and rode furiously to tho camp. Pulling up with a jerk that almost lifted the iron-jawed bronco from the ground, he literally hurled himself from the saddle, and reached the " boss" in two bounds.

"I must be in Denver to-night! I want your best horse, quick!" The boss stared at him in astonishment. Why, man, it's a hundred an' twenty miles. You're crazy." Waring fairly stamped in his impatience. " It's only sixty to Empire," he cried, "and I can get the train there. ,It leaves at one o'clock, and I can make it, if you'll lend me Star. I know he's your pet horse, and you never let anyone ride him, but I tell you, Mr. Coberly, this means everything to me. I simply must get there." Coberly scowled. "You ought 'o know, Jack, that I won't lend Star; so what's the use o' askin'? None o' the other horses can get you over there in that time, so you might's well give it up. What in thunder's the matter with you that you in such a confounded rush?" Waring thought a moment, and then, drawing the boss beyond earshot of the listening cow-punchers, spoke to him rapidly and earnestly, finally handing him the postal card. Coberly scanned it intently, and a change came over his face. When he looked up, it; was with an expression of respect mingled with amazement, as he said: " Why didn't you show me this at first? 0' course you can have the horse. Hi, there! Some o' you boys round up the horses an' rope Star for Mr. Waring. Jump lively." Tho men made a rush for their saddles and in an incredibly short time several of them were racing across the plain in the direction of the bunch of horses. Waring rushed into the tent and began gathering his few possessions. Coberly plunged around outside, giving orders at the top of his voice. "Roll. up some grub for Mr. Waring, quick ! Nick, you get his canteen an" fill it out o' my jug. Fly around now!'' *

A rush of hoofs announced the arrival of the horse and his escort, just as Waring emerged from the tent with hie little bundle. A dozen hands made quick work of saddling, and with a hurried good-bye all around he swung himself up and astride of the magnificent animal, and was off on his long ride. He looked back and saw the boys in a group around the boss, who was explaining the cause of his hasty departure. Presently a tremendous yell reached his ears, and he saw hate frantically thrown in the air. He waved his hand in reply, and settled down in the saddle. The long, pacing stride of Coberly's pet covered the ground in a surprising manner, and eight o'clock found twenty-three miles behind his nimble feet, and the Bar Triangle Ranch in sight. A five-minute stop, and then on across the gently-rising country to the stage station at the foot of the great Continental Divide, fifteen miles away. It lacked twenty minutes of ten o'clock when Waring drew rein in the shadow of the giant peaks that towered above him. He unsaddled and turned j the big thoroughbred into tho corral. A half-hour's rest would put new life into him. Twenty-two miles to the "railroad, and nearly three hours in which to cover it. It seemed possible; but the great range must be crossed, and Waring knew that the ten miles of steep climbing to the snowy summit of Berthoud Pass meant more than twice that distance on the flat plain. At a-quarter past ten Star, refreshed by an energetic rubbing , and a mouthful of water, was carrying him up the road, with no apparent diminution of power. Up, up they went, mile after mile, until the plain they had ■ left was spread out like a map behind him, and the thick forest had given place to a scattering and scrubby growth of pines. They were nearing the timber-line, and the piercing chill of the biting wind testified to tho proximity of the snow-covered peaks. Two miles from the top Waring dismounted, and led

his panting horse along the icy . trail. The rarified air seemed to burn his lungs as he struggled up the remaining distance to the summit of the Pass, twelve thousand feet above the sea. Twelve o'clock! He stopped, and anxiously examined the noble beast that had carried him so far and so well. The inspection reassured him. There was plenty of life and energy left in Star yet. Not without reason was he acknowledged tho best horse in -the country. One "hour, and twelve miles to go, the first seven down the steepest road in the State. Could he make it? He must! A final pull at the cinches, and Waring was • again in the saddle, racing down the dangerous path towards the sea of dark green forest that stretched far below. : Down sharp pitches and long . slopes, around dizzy curves ' and through deep canons, slipping, . swaying, - followed by masses of loose stones and ■ gravel, they went, faster than ever that trail was covered before. The iron-shod hoofs struck' fire from the < flinty ' rocks, as, almost sitting on his haunches, Star would _ slide twenty feet at a time, down an unusually, steep grade, recovering . his footing with a staggering effort at the bottom. It was perilous w'ork. They . reached : the. timberline, passed below it, and plunged into the woods. , A mile beyond they flew past the stage at a mad pace, throwing a shower of mud over the astonished passengers. Down at last :to the level road they cam#, with five miles still to go. Star: swung into a strong, . easy lope, and his rider drew a long breath. Not till then had he realised the strain of that wild ride. Rounding a turn in the »road, „ho espied a horseman approaching, and turned out to pass him. The stranger eyed him sharply as he drew near, and suddenly whipped out a six-shooter. "Hold up/ there. I want to talk to you*'-

For a moment Waring considered the chance of riding over the man, but for a moment only. The stranger looked too determined, and his aim was sure. He pulled up, raging. "I suppose you want my money," he snarled. "Well, you're welcome to it if you'll leave me enough to pay my fare to Denver." The other grinned. " That's a good bluff, but it won't go. I'm the sheriff, an' what I want to know is where you're going with Joe Coberly s horse." "Oh, is that all you want?" said Waring, relieved. Why, I've been working for Coberly, and he iont me the horse to ride over here to catch the train." And he gathered , his reins to ride on. "Hold, on, young man," and the sheriff raised his gun suggestively, that yarn won't do. I know old Joe, an' I happen to know that ho wouldn't lend that horse to his own brother, let alone one of his cow-punchers. I guess I'll have to lock you up till the boys come after you." Waring t groaned. " Look here, Mr. Sheriff, I'm telling you God's truth. Coberly let me take the horse because it was the only one that could get ino over here in time to catch the train, and I had to be in -Denver tonight without fail." His captor shook his head. "It's no .use, my friend; your story won't hold water. Why're you in such a team' hurry, anyway?" Waring remembered the . postal card ; he reached into his breast pocket and produced it. " That is my reason for haste," he said, " and that is why Coberly let me take the horse," and-he added a few words of explanation. Keeping his captive carefully covered with the muzzle of the revolver he carried, the officer rode closer and took the card. As he read it his face lighted up, and he lowered his gun.

" That's all right, youngster. I'm sorry I stopped you. I don't wonder Joo lent you the horse I'd've done the same, even if I'd had to walk myself. I hope you won't miss the train. I'll ride down to the station with you, as some of the boys might want to string you up on account of the everybody knows him." Overjoyed at this satisfactory turn of affairs, Waring touched Star with the spur and rodo forward, with the repentant sheriff by his side, their horses in a rapid gallop. Mounting a rise, they saw the town before them, a mile distant. The train was at the station ! Another touch of the spur, and Star stretched out into a run that gradually left the sheriff behind, well mounted though he was. A half mile yet to go! A quarter! The black smoke began to come in heavy puffs from the funnel of the engine, and the line of cars moved slowly away from the station. Then it was that Star showed the spirit that was in him. The quirt fell sharply on his flank for the first time that day, and he bounded forward and swept down upon the town like a whirlwind. As the usual crowd of train-time loafers lounged around the corner of the station their attention was attracted by the two swiftly-approaching riders, and they paused to watch tho race. Presently one cried : " Hullo, that first horse is Coberly's black, an' he's sure movin' too. The other chap ain't in it. Why, it's the sheriff! " An' he's after the other feller. Horse thief, by thunder! I'll fix him," and he reached for his hip. The others took "up the cry of "Horse thief!" and as Waring flashed past the building at Star's top speed a volley of shots greeted him, and the bullets sang around his head. Fortunately, they went wild, and before any more could be fired the sheriff tori} into liui crowd and roared i

" Stop shootin', you fools. The man's all right; he's only tryin' to catch the train." At this there was a laugh, and then a rush to the track, where an unobstructed view of the race could be obtained. The road ran for a mile beside the fails, as level as a floor. The train was gathering speed with every revolution of tho wheels, but Star was travelling, too, and gaining at every jump. The crowd at the station danced and howled in their excitement. "Will he make it?" "He's gainin'." - "Look at that horse hump himself." "Gee, he's movin'!" Hooray for the black " He'll make it!!" "He'll make it!!!" Waring, with eyes fixed and jaw set, was riding desperately. Thirty feet! The spectators in . the doorway of the last car gazed breathlessly. Twenty feet—and Star straining every nerve and muscle in his body. Ten feet — and still he gained. Only five feet now! Inch by inch he crawled up. He was abreast of the platform! Swerving his flying horse closer to the track. Waring leaned over, and grasping the railings with both hands, lifted himself from the saddle, kicked his feet from the stirrups, and swung over to the steps of the car. The faint sound of a cheer reached him from the distant depot. After calmly accepting tho enthusiastic congratulations of the passengers who had witnessed his dramatic boarding 'of ' the train, Waring dropped into a seat with a sigh of relief, and was soon lost in thought. He was roused from his reverie by a touch on the arm, and turned to find the conductor standing beside him. The sight of that official re vended him of the necessity of paying fare, and ho reached into his pocket for the required cash. His fingers encountered nothing more valuable than a knife and some matches. The other pockets were equally unproductive. Then he remembered, with

a shock, that he had put his money in the little bundle, at that moment firmly attached to his saddle, some miles to the rear. It was maddening. There was nothing to do but throw himself on the mercy of the man in the blue uniform. That person heard his excuses with an impassive face, and merely announced that he would have to get off at the next station. This was not at all in accordance with Waring's plans, and he endeavoured to impress upon the conductr the importance of his being in Denver that evening. He might as well have addressed the Sphinx, so far as any effect his words had on the official, who said in answer to his entreaties : "I'd lose my job if I let you ride free. You'll have to get off. It's only ten miles back to Empire, and •if you left your money on your saddle, you can soon get it again that is, if no one has swiped it before you get there." Waring grew desperate. Was his ride after all to be fruitless? He remembered his reason for haste, and decided to take the conductor into his confidence. Leaning over, he whispered something quickly into his ear, and ended by showing him' the postal card. At first the man looked incredulous, but a glance at Waring's earnest face reassured him. His expression softened, and -he handed back the card with a sigh. " I reckon I'll have to ■ fix 'it for you, but the only way I can do it. is to pay your fare out of my own pocket. I'll do that, and you can send me the money. It's three-sixty." , He took a slip from his pocket; upon which life wrote his name and address. This he gave to Waring, together with a cash receipt ticket, and, unheeding the latter's impulsive thanks, continued on his round of collection*. •

This occurrence reminded Waring of similar difficulties to be overcome in Denver, and he did some hard, rapid thinking as he was being whirled down through Clear Creek Canon, but by the time the train shot past Table Mountain and out to the plain his face bore a confident smile. The postal card had served him well thus far; perhaps its mission was not yet ended. The car wheels were still turning when he strode through the big station, his heavy spurs ringing on the marble floor. Jumping into a carriage, he was driven to the nearest drug store, where he consulted a directory. " Number nine hundred, South Seven-teenth-street," he cried, as he re-entered the vehicle. Arriving at his destination, he sprang out, and saying "Wait," ran up the steps of a palatial residence. To the dignified butler who opened the door he said: " I wish to see Mr. Foster. My name is Waring. I haven't a card with , me." , Instinctively perceiving the gentleman beneath the rough flannel shirt and mudcovered " chaps," the servant politely ushered him into the reception-room, saying that he would see if Mr. Foster was in. Apparently he was, for he appeared almost immediately, the personification of keen-eyed, well-groomed finance. i ".What can I do for you, Mr.— Waring?" i That young man took in every detail of his appearance, and he realised that he had a hard-headed man of business to | deal with. . "Mr. Foster," he said, "you are the president of the Denver National Bank, which, I believe, handles the Western interests of the Second National Bank of Boston?" , The other bowed, and Waring continued : "I have an account at the Secondhand I want you to cash a cheque for me. It is after banking hours, I know, and

even if it were not, I have no immediate means of identification." The banker's features stiffened perceptibly, but Waring went on: "It is of the greatest importance that I take the eastern express to-night, or I would not come to you in this irregular way" " One moment, Mr. Waring. Pardon me for interrupting you, but it will save your time as well as my own if I say that what you ask is impossible, as you should know. My advice to you is to wire your bank for the money." Waring broke in impatiently: "Of course I know that I can do that, but it means a day's delay, and that is what I want to avoid. , See here,'. Mr. Foster, I am willing to pay any amount within reason for the accommodation "if you will oblige me." The president began to look suspicious. " It must be a very urgent matter that requires such haste," he said sarcastically. " Really, Mr. . Waring, I must positively decline to do anything for you." "It is an urgent matter," cried Waring. "I was about to explain it to you," and he went on and told of the postal card . and its purport, adding a brief account of his efforts to get to the city in time to take the train that night. "Let me see the card," said the banker. His voice had taken on a different inflection. Waring handed him the bit of pasteboard that had played such an important part in his adventures. Mr. Foster scrutinised it. • "From what is it taken, did you say?" Upon hearing the answer he left the room, to return in a few minutes with a rather bulky musical score, which he laid upon the table, and turned the pages until he found what he sought. Carefully lie compared the music on the card with that of the printed sheet,. Then, turning

to the younger man, he said in a kindly voice: . " I will assist you, Mr. Waring. It will, of course, bo a purely personal accommodation, as it is contrary to all my business methods, but I cannot resist such an appeal as this. Also, I consider myself a good judge of faces,. and 1 feel safe in trusting yours. What amount do you require?" , Waring fairly beamed with joy. " A hundred dollars will be sufficient,"he replied. The banker motioned towards a desk. " Make your cheque for a hundred and fifty. You will need that much, unless you care to travel in your present costume." Waring made out the proper form, and handed it to the banker. The latter dropped into the vacated chair before the desk, and rapidly wrote a cheque for a like amount, which he passed over, saying: . „ " You can cash this at the Brown Palace Hotel. I will 'phone the cashier, so you will have no trouble." Waring tried to thank him, but he would not listen. "You are perfectly welcome, my boy.I am glad to be able to help you. I envy you, with all my heart. I would give half of all I own to be in your position," and his voice trembled a little. " You have my beet wishes for a pleasant journey. _ Good-bye." A cordial grasp, and Waring ran down the steps with a light heart, hie way at last clear before him. "Telegraph office," he shouted. Ten minutes later these words were speeding over the wire: " Postal received. Arrive Boston Friday night. See Luke i. —Jack." When the Chicago, Limited, pulled out of Denver that evening John Talbot Waring, clean-shaved, and attired in , garments of the most approved cut, • was standing on the rear platform of the last Pullman, softly humming a fragment from the great oratorio, "The Messiah." There,.was a tender light in his eyes as he gazed at a ' postal card he held in his hand. ' And the words he sang were: , •v-., For nnto us a child ia bora; . Unto us a son is given. At the same moment, - two thousand miles away in the East, a pale young wife was holding a telegram close to her lips. An open Bible lay on the bed beside her. Turning softly on her pillows, she glanced lovingly at the dainty cradle, and whispered: Thou shalt call his name John.