Reel Life (Sep 1913 - Mar 1914)

4 R®8l Life IS l' Li'Si Adapted from the "American" Play iry R©yc© ©rmsl>ee Mountains stood about the little town tall and purple, silhouetted against a golden twilight sky; 50 jclosely drowded in on the valley that it seemed as if one might reach out from any of the houses there and stroke the glossy pine trees. But Don McDonald, waiting on the porch of the "American House" was not in a mood to enjoy the scenery. There was his horse, saddled and ready; there, too, was another likewise awaiting a rider. From time to time, McDonald pulled out his watch, a process which, however, seemed only to aggravate its owner's impatience. Pine Gulch had its own story of the young lawyer who, without explanation, had arrived there six months ago and whose office had yet to welcome a first client. Public opinion affirmed that McDonald was one of the rich Eastern people whom Sidney Johnson's daughter had met while she was back there at school. This much was certain : that the man was infinitely more interested in Clara Johnson than in Pine Gulch, its past, present or even its future prospects. And it was equally well known that "old man Johnson" had said a decided "no" until Don should have won his first case before a Pine Gulch jury. A quick foot-step caused the young man to turn while he summoned an expression of hurt reproach. But the girl came directly to him. "I'm awfully sorry, Don. I just couldn't help it. So many people came in on the afternoon train. Father couldn't handle them all. Don't be cross. We'll still have time to get to Lookout and back, if we hurry." Clara Johnson, as she rode ahead, straight and trim, was pretty enough to have soothed the wounded vanity of any man, and Don felt his displeasure vanishing into thin air. They were soon out of the little town, and climbing the hills, the cold, clear air striking their faces till the blood raced as if keeping pace with their horses. Suddenly the girl drew rein. "Don, you mustn't be angry with me. I'm — -I'm troubled — about father." A flood of feeling swept away any last trace of vexation. "Why, sweetheart, what's the matter?" "Nothing really, that I can be sure of. But I'm worried. This afternoon, when all those people came, I was working at the desk, helping Ed and all that ; I was almost sure that father had been— drinking. When that happens, he always gambles and loses a lot of money. This evening, after I had finished supper, I couldn't see father anywhere. So I went to his private office — you know that little room behind the bar— and there were a group of them, playing for money. I didn't want to go riding a bit, then. You mustn't mind — you see it troubles me." An exclamation of pity burst from the man. Then his mood turned to anger. "This is no place for you. You shouldn't have to worry about such things. Why won't you be sensible and let me take you home with me. You know you will sometime. But here you stay, fretting your heart out over things you can't help." "I admit all that, Don. But I can't go until father is satisfied. Don't say anything against him. You know, I feel if mother hadn't died, and if I hadn't been away so long, father wouldn't do as he does." There was a paUse. Then the girl drew herself up proudly. "And, Don, remember, any time you're tked of waiting — there's a train East every night at ten o'clock. You're free to go if you want to." "And you know very well I don't want to. Listen, sweetheart, there's the sleeper." Prom the mountain opposite came a whistle, musical it sounded in the distance, then a trail of light that crawled seemingly into the valley only to be lost again behind the hills. "Here I am and here I stay until you are ready to go with me." Meanwhile, an all too common scene was being enacted in the proprietor's room at the American House. Around the table sat a group of men, intent upon their cards, while others watched the game. The assemblage was made up about equally of towns-men and travelers, and while the cards were dealt, the bartender made his rounds. "Old man Johnson," the gambling fever upon him, was drinking heavily. Gains and losses were fairly evenly distributed, and as the hours went by and no great excitement promised, the crowd dwindled. Finally, long past midnight, only Johnson and a stranger were left in the game. At that moment, a keen observer might have noticed a signal passing between the stranger and one of the few remaining spectators. Soon the room was empty of all save the two players. Stakes rose, were doubled, tripled. The pile of money grew with amazing rapidity. The older man's last gold piece had gone; he staked his watch, a handsome specimen of foreign make, on the next deal— and lost again. Then, suddenly, at the end of his resources, Sidney Johnson faced his opponent in a kind of dazed despair, and collapsed on the table, his head falling heavily on his hands.