Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1920)

The Sheriff W ill iam Henry Harrison Hoover — more familiarly kno'wn as"Slim. I Round-Up A tale of love and adventure in the Southwest, narrated by permission from Edmund Day's play. By GENE SHERIDAN DICK LANE stood over the embers of his campfire as the low gleaming rays of the setting sun illumined the cathedral peaks of the Ghost Range, spreading purple-black shadows across the desert and wind-sculptured badlands. He was nearing the last lone bivouac of the long -trail home and back to God's country up there across the American border. And such a homecoming as it would be, he pictured — a homecoming to Echo Allen, the fairest daughter of all sunlit Pinal County. Close by the prospector's fire were his packs and their precious burden of good, yellow gold, hard won and gleaned as the fruits of Lane's long quest in the wilds of the Mexican mountains. He had come at last to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now he was going back to make that gold prove its worth in dividends of happiness. Lane smiled under his matted beard as he recalled that day so many months ago when he bid farewell to the folks at the Bar-i Ranch. He saw them again standing before the ranchhouse — Uncle Jim Allen and his wife Josephine watching with eager sympathy his parting with their daughter Echo — and his brother Bud, young, ardent and impetuous — and Polly Hope, Echo's orphaned cousin— and Jack — yes, his good pal Jack Payson. The yellow gold over in the packs made Dick Lane feel especially glad for his life-long friend Jack, who had put a mortgage on the Sweetwater ranch to grubstake the prospecting expedition. Lane's saddle horse, abandoning the society of the pack mules, came nosing up to the fire, seeking companionship and attention. "Come here, Pete." Lane reached out and patted the horse on his friendly neck. "Only three days more, Pete, and then we'll see her. We'll pay old Jack back his three thousand — and then I suspect we'll be taking a leadin' part in a first class wedding." And there was good luck in his homecoming for Bud and Polly, too. Lane reflected with a glow of generous happiness. For he had promised that if he made a strike Bud should have a stake to buy a business and marry Polly. While the lone prospector was busy with his anticipations and making camp for the night, a few rough mountain miles to the south, desperate and hard-pressed by the Rurales policing the border country, rode Buck McKee, half-white, halfred, a renegade, at the head of his band of Apache outlaws. They were riding hard to make the temporary safety of the American border. Abruptly McKee pulled up his galloping mustang to a sharp stop and leaped to the ground to examine the trail. His redskin comrades pulled up beside him. He squatted over the hoof marks left by the passage of the last traveler over that lonely defile, studying each imprint intently. Then he arose, holding out one finger to indicate to his band that it was the trail of one man, and pointed off up the gorge in the direction he had taken. There were a few sharp clucking words in Apache, an apprehensive look back for sign of the pursuing Rurales, and the redskin horsemen with McKee at their head were off again, following the trail as wolves follow the deer. A snort from Pete, browsing nearby, awakened the attention of Dick Lane, busy making camp. He looked off in the direction that held the curious attention of the horse and made out the tiny spot of desert dust in the distance which spelled the approach of galloping horsemen. He kicked apart the remains of his fire and stamped them out, hurried to drive his pack mules into the cover of an arroyo, hid his gold-laden packs and stood by to await any possible attack. McKee and his band came clattering up the trail under the keen-eyed observation of Dick Lane, hidden, rifle beside him, behind a sheltering rock. The prospector gasped as he recognized the outlaw. His decision was swift and inevitable. There was only one way to deal with Buck McKee. Lane rested his rifle in a notch of the rock and fired. One of the Indians stiffened up in the saddle and plunged off, rolling down the slope like a spinning log. With a cry, the Apaches dismounted and scattered to cover. There was a tense silence as they advanced, creeping as si 51