Picture Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

4 PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY "A girl knows a great deal, Newt. An' I tell yer if you shoot Henry Falkins yo'll be sorry all the days of yore life." "Huh ! Mabbe yo're in love with him yoreself." She laughed at him. "Oh, no, Newt. But somebody else is — a girl who was at school with me. A lovely gal, Newt, who is more worthy of him than I am." "Yo're good enough fer anybody," he snapped, as though she had uttered a tered, as he flung open the door and stepped out. "I got ter git him, I tell yer ; and I got ter git him now." "Oh, what can I do?" moaned the girl. "What can I do?" She knew that nothing she could say would prevent Newt from carrying out his dreadful purpose. He had even now started on the journey that must end in a tragedy. That Henry Falkins should die was not of such significance "Whar be yer goin', Minervy?" her father asked, pointing down at the bulging handkerchief. sacrilege. And then, unwilling to discuss the matter further, he grasped his gun by the stock and strode to the door. He turned for a moment and scowled. The girl was not looking at him. Her hands were clasped over a boqk that lay in her lap. There was a far-away look in her eyes, due perhaps to what Newt had said, due perhaps to the pictures that formed in her mind, pictures with Newt always in the foreground. "Yo' cain't say nothin' ter me erbout my affair with Henry Falkins,'' he mut to her as the fate of Newt Spooner when again the long arm of the law was stretched out for him. Fler thoughts flew to Peter Spooner — Black Pete — a purposeful, dominant member of the clan, whose clean-shaven face and wavy hair had given him the nickname of "The Deacon." He had been foremost in feuds some years ago, but, tiring of the continual fighting, he had gone West for a time, and was but recently returned. If any one could dissuade the boy it would be the Deacon. But to reach him meant a long hik 1 through swamps and across streams. She thought of going to Henry Fal 1 kins himself. But it was a two days! journey on foot to the Falkins hom« i and she could not hope to reach it be ' [ fore the long-legged Newt. So the Deacon it must be, and, he mind made up. she removed shoes am stockings and prepared for the journe} She was still a mountain girl, in spit of her "schooling." Her feet wer I hardened to the mountain trails, am she knew she would make better prog | i ress across the swamp lands untram i meled with boots. Bread and cheese and a bottle of ter | she put into one of her father's great 1 1 gayly colored handkerchiefs, and, with i out stopping to change the tattered wais | she wore, she started for the Deacon'il She came upon her father at the rea i of the cabin. He had a rifle in hi i hand, and looked forbidding and sterr 1 1 though at heart he was kindly enougl: j i and the girl had an honest affectioiji for him. "Whar be yer goin', Minervy?" h< asked, pointing down at the bulgin; handkerchief. "To Black Pete Spooner's — the Dea con's. Oh, pappy, it's to try to sav Newt I'm going." And then she told him the story. "I'd go myself," he said slowly, "ii so be't I had a horse. But the Deacon'l; have one. I'll fix it so yer new mamm won't jaw yer." His tired eyes looked down on he with a certain compassion — as much a could be shown in the face of this gaun man of the mountains, who had scorne< to let his inmost feelings be revealed. " 'My new mammy,' " she echoed "Oh, pappy, nobody will ever be a nev mammy ter me. Offen and often m; mind goes back ter the little moun< whar she lies. And I kin remembe yer standin' thar beside hit bareheaded An' — an' you' remember, pappy, I wa: lying across the grave, close ter the lit tie cross with the word 'Mother' on hit I thought my heart would break tha day. An' now, pappy, now I have ij new mammy." There was a painful silence. The oli man cleared his throat, but he had m words for her. "I don't blame yer, daddy. Yc wanted me ter have my schoolin', an while I was away yo' were lonely. It' all right, daddy; God plans everything