Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v8"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1576"

Catherine Parr Traill - "Lady Mary and her Nurse"

Herbert Jenkins - "The Life of George Borrow"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Long Chance

P >> Peter B. Kyne >> The Long Chance




Through the aboriginal brain of Soft Wind, however, some hint of the
situation had by this time managed to sift. The presence of two
delegations of female visitors in one week was unprecedented; and in
her slow dumb way she realized that the condition of her mistress was
probably being questioned by these white women.

Now, Soft Wind had been Donna's nurse, and since the squaw was
untroubled by the finer question of morality in a lady (the mere trifle
of a marriage license had been no bar to her own primitive alliance
with Sam Singer) it irked her to stand idly by while these white women
offered insult to her adored one. She could not understand what was
being said (Donna always spoke to her in the language of her tribe, a
language learned in her babyhood from Soft Wind herself) but she did
know by the pale face and flashing eyes that Donna was angry.

"I came to tell--" began Miss Pickett.

Donna pointed toward the door. "Go" she commanded.

Still Miss Pickett lingered; so Soft Wind, whose forty years of life
had been spent in arduous toil that had made her muscles as hard and
firm as those of most men, picked Miss Pickett up in her arms, carried
her out kicking and screaming and tossed the spinster incontinently
over the gate. Sam Singer saw the exit and favored his squaw with the
first grunt of approval in many years. Donna, after first ascertaining
that Miss Pickett had lit in the sand and was uninjured, leaned over
the gate and almost laughed herself into hysterics.

That was the last effort made to reform Donna Corblay. In a covert way
Miss Pickett and Mrs. Pennycook conspired to publicly disgrace her and,
branded as a scarlet woman, drive her out of San Pasqual, if possible.
Donna had declared war, and they were prepared to accept the challenge.

Borax O'Rourke, with six months' wages coming to him from his chosen
occupation of skinning mules up Keeler way, had been sighing for the
delights of San Pasqual and an opportunity to spend his money after the
fashion of the country. This was not possible in Keeler--at least not
on the extravagant scale which obtained regularly in San Pasqual;
hence, when he learned quite by chance that Harley P. Hennage was no
longer in that thriving hive of desert iniquity, Borax commenced to
pine for some society more ameliorating than that of twelve mules
driven with a jerk-line. In a word, Mr. O'Rourke decided to quit his
job, go down to San Pasqual and enter upon a butterfly existence until
his six months' pay should be dissipated.

Accordingly Borax O'Rourke descended, via the stage line, on San
Pasqual. He heralded his arrival and his intentions by inviting San
Pasqual to drink with him, and after visiting each of its many saloons
and spending impartially the while, he decided, along toward dusk, that
he had partaken of sufficient squirrel whisky to give him an appetite
for his dinner, and forthwith shaped his somewhat faltering course for
the eating-house.

Here he discovered that Donna Corblay was no longer employed at the
cashier's counter--which disappointed him. He ate his dinner in
silence, and upon his return to the Silver Dollar saloon he was
informed, with many a low jest and rude guffaw, the reason for his
disappointment. Whereat he laughed himself.

Now, Borax O'Rourke, while a low, vulgar, border ruffian, had what even
the lowest of his kind generally appear to possess: a lingering sense
of respect for a good woman. Until the night of the attack upon her by
the hoboes in the railroad yard, he had never dared to presume to the
extent of speaking to Donna Corblay, even when paying for his meals,
although the democracy of San Pasqual would not have construed speech
at such a time as a breach of convention. For there were no angels in
San Pasqual; the town was merely sunk in a moral lethargy, and the line
of demarcation in matters of rectitude was drawn between those who
stole and had killed their man, and those who had not. All the lesser
sins were looked upon tolerantly as indigenous to the soil, and as
Borax O'Rourke had never been accused of theft and had never killed his
man (he had been in two arguments, however, and had winged his man both
times, the winger and the wingee subsequently shaking hands and
declaring a truce), he was not considered beyond the pale. Had he
spoken to Donna she readily would have comprehended that he merely
desired to be neighborly; she would have inquired the latest news from
the borax works at Keeler and doubtless would have sold him a hat.

Nevertheless, for a long time, Borax O'Rourke had nursed a secret
passion for the eating-house cashier, a passion, that never could have
been dignified by the term "love" (Borax was not equal to that) but
rather an animal-like desire for possession. There was considerable of
the abysmal brute in Borax. He would have been voted quite a Lochinvar
in the days when men procured their wives by right of discovery and the
ability to retain possession, and had he dared, he would have made love
to Donna in his bearlike way. Hence, as in the case of all pure women
in frontier towns, where rough men foregather, Donna's easily
discernible purity had been her most salient protection, and beyond
such bulwarks Borax O'Rourke had never dared to venture.

It had been a shock, therefore, to Mr. O'Rourke, when he discovered her
that August night, crying over a stranger and kissing him. Borax
himself was not a bad-looking fellow, in a rough out-o'-doors sort of
way, and while he had not been privileged to a close scrutiny of the
man whom Donna had kissed, still he believed him to be a rough-and-
ready individual like himself, and quite naturally the thought occurred
to Borax that he, too, might not have been unwelcome, had he but
possessed sufficient courage to make a cautious advance.

He was confirmed in this thought now at the news which he heard upon
the first night of his return to San Pasqual, and with the thought that
he had been worshiping an idol with feet of clay, Mr. O'Rourke cursed
himself for an unmitigated jackass in thus leaving to some other roving
rascal the prize which he had so earnestly desired for himself. With
the receipt of the information about Donna, Mr. O'Rourke unconsciously
felt himself instantly on the same social level with her, and since
convention was something alien to his soul, and possession his sole
inspiration, he decided that he could make his advances now in full
confidence that he might be successful; and if not, there would be no
necessity for feeling sheepish over his rebuff.

"I'll ask her to marry me, an' damn the odds" he decided. "There's
worse places than the Hat Ranch to live in, with a few dollars always
comin' in. She'll be glad enough of the offer, like as not--considerin'
the circumstances, an' she can send the kid to an orphan asylum."

By morning this crafty idea had taken full possession of Borax, so
after fortifying himself with a half dozen drinks, he set forth for the
Hat Ranch. Also, under the influence of the liquor and his overweening
pride in his bright idea, he had taken pains to announce his
destination and the object of his visit. A crowd of male observers
stood on the porch of the Silver Dollar saloon and watched him depart,
the while they spurred him on his way with many a jeer and jibe.

Sam Singer was seated in the kitchen at the Hat Ranch, enjoying an
after-breakfast cigarette, when O'Rourke came to the kitchen door,
hiccoughed and made rough demand for the mistress of the house. Donna,
from an adjoining room, heard him and came into the kitchen.

"Well, Borax" she demanded, "what do you want? A hat?"

She saw that he had been drinking, and a sudden fear took possession of
her. With the exception of her Indian retainer, Bob McGraw, Harley P.
Hennage and Doc Taylor, no male foot had profaned the Hat Ranch in
twenty years, and the presence of O'Rourke was a distinct menace.

"Not on your life, sweetheart" he began pertly, "I want you."

Donna spoke to the Indian in the Cahuilla tongue, and Sam Singer sprang
at the mule-skinner like a panther on an unsuspecting deer. The lean
mahogany-colored hands closed around the ruffian's throat, and the two
bodies crashed to the floor together. O'Rourke, taken unaware by the
suddenness and ferocity of the attack, was no match. for the Indian. He
endeavored to free his arm and reach for his gun, but Sam Singer had
anticipated him. Already the big blue gun was in the Indian's
possession; he raised it, brought the butt down on O'Rourke's head, and
the battle was over, almost before it had fairly started.

"Drag him outside" Donna commanded. The Indian grasped O'Rourke by his
legs and dragged him outside the compound. Then he returned to the
kitchen, secured a bucket, filled it at the artesian well, and
returning, dashed it over the still dazed enemy.

The water did its work, and presently O'Rourke sat up.

"I'll kill you for this" he said; whereat Sam Singer struck him in the
face and rolled him over in the dirt. Incidentally, he retained Mr.
O'Rourke's big blue gun as a souvenir of the fray.

Half an hour later a very dejected, bedraggled mule-skinner, bruised,
bleeding and covered with sand which clung to his dripping person,
returned to San Pasqual, to be heartily jeered at for the result of his
pilgrimage; for the San Pasqualians noticed that not only had Mr.
O'Rourke suffered defeat, but in the melee his gun had been taken from
him, and to suffer such humiliation at the hands of a mere Indian was
considered in San Pasqual the very dregs and drainings of downright
disgrace.

For two days Borax O'Rourke drowned his chagrin in the lethal waters of
the Silver Dollar saloon, and presently to him here there came an
anonymous letter, containing, by some devil's devising, a unique scheme
for revenge on Donna, and on Sam Singer, who depended on her bounty. At
one stroke he could destroy them both, and cast them forth into the
wide reaches of the Mojave desert, homeless.

The unknown writer of this anonymous note desired to advise Borax
O'Rourke that Donna Corblay had no title to the lands on which the Hat
Ranch stood; that the desert was still part of the public domain and
subject to entry; that he, Borax O'Rourke, might file on forty acres
surrounding the Hat Ranch, and by demonstrating that he had an
artesian well on the forty, which would irrigate one-eighth of his
entry, he could obtain title to the land. In any event, after filing
his application, he would then be in a position to evict his enemies.

This seemed to the brute O'Rourke such a very novel idea that he
decided to follow it out immediately. He spent that day sobering up,
and the next few days in a trip to the land office one hundred and
fifty miles up the valley; at Independence. Upon his return to San
Pasqual he had old Judge Kenny, the local justice of the peace, serve
formal written notice upon Donna Corblay to evacuate immediately;
otherwise he would commence suit.

The news was over San Pasqual in an hour, and formed the basis of much
discussion in the Silver Dollar when Borax Somebody hailed him.

"Well, Borax, I see you're goin' to play even. D'ye think you'll be
able to oust the girl from the Hat Ranch? The boys have been discussin'
it, and it looks like she might put up a fight on squatter's rights."

"I'll git her out all right" rumbled O'Rourke, "an' when I do, I'll
chuck the old lady's bones after her. I'll teach her an' that Indian o'
hers--"

Borax O'Rourke paused. His tongue clicked drily against the roof of his
mouth.

Seated at a card-table across the room, idly shuffling a deck of cards,
sat Harley P. Hennage, and he was staring at Borax O'Rourke. At the
latter's sudden pause, a silence fell upon the Silver Dollar, and every
man lined up at the long bar turned and followed O'Rourke's glance.

For fully a minute Mr. Hennage's small baleful eyes flicked murder
lights as their glance burned into O'Rourke's wolfish soul. Then, quite
calmly, he commenced placing his cards for a game of solitaire, and
when he had carefully disposed of them he spoke:

"O'Rourke!"

The word was deep, throaty, almost a growl. Simultaneously the men
nearest O'Rourke drifted quickly away from him.

"Well?"

"I don't like your game. Stop it. Hand me an assignment o' that desert
entry o' yours by three o'clock, an' get out o' town by four o'clock.
Hear me?"

"An' if I don't?" demanded O'Rourke.

"If you don't," repeated Mr. Hennage calmly, "I shall cancel the entry
at one minute after four o'clock."

"You can't bluff me."

"I'm not bluffin' this time, you dog. Do I get that assignment of
entry?"

Borax O'Rourke knew that his life might be the price of a refusal, but
in the presence of that crowd where men were measured by their courage
the remnants of his manhood forbade him to answer "yes." He was not a
coward.

"I'll be in the middle o' the street at four o'clock" he answered.

"Got a gun?"

"No."

The gambler threw him over a twenty-dollar piece.

"Go get one."

Borax O'Rourke picked the coin off the floor and shuffled out of the
Silver Dollar saloon.

Until one minute past four o'clock, then, the incident was closed, and
Mr. Hennage returned to his interrupted game of solitaire.




CHAPTER XIX


Why Harley P. Hennage should elect to return to San Pasqual on the very
day that Borax O'Rourke issued formal written notice through old Judge
Kenny for Donna to vacate the Hat Ranch, which stood upon the desert
land whereon he had filed, is one of the mysteries of retributive
justice with which this story has nothing to do. Suffice the fact that
Mr. Hennage had stayed away from San Pasqual six months, and six months
is a sufficient lapse of time for any ordinary public excitement to
wear off, particularly in the desert. He had not intended returning so
soon, but a letter from Dan Pennycook, to whom Mr. Hennage had
communicated his whereabouts, charging the yardmaster to keep him in
touch with affairs at the Hat Ranch, had precipitated his descent upon
San Pasqual. He had dropped off the Limited at daylight that very
morning, and by nine o'clock was in possession of all the facts
regarding the mistress of the Hat Ranch.

"It's a nasty mix-up, Harley" Dan Pennycook informed him, when Mr.
Hennage sought the yardmaster out in his desire for explicit
information touching the hint of trouble to Donna conveyed in the
letter which Pennycook had sent him. "Her husband ain't never showed
up, an' there ain't no record of her marriage license in the county
clerk's office."

"How d'ye know there ain't?" the gambler demanded.

"Ee--er--well, the fact is, Harley, Mrs. Pennycook--"

"She went an' looked, eh?"

"Well, she was concerned about the girl's reputation--"

"Huh-huh. I see. Dan, do _you_ believe this scandal?"

"Not a damned word of it" said honest Dan firmly. "There's some
mistake. The girl's good. I've seen her grow up in this town since she
was a baby, an' girls like Donna Corblay don't go wrong."

Mr. Hennage extended his freckled, hairy hand. "Dan" he said, "I thank
you for that. But your missus ain't playin' fair."

Pennycook threw up his hands deprecatingly. "I know it" he said, "an' I
can't help it."

Harley P. laid his hand on the yardmaster's shoulder. "Dan" he said,
"me an' you've been good friends, man to man, an' there's just a chance
that after to-day we ain't a-goin' to meet no more. You take my
compliments to Mrs. Pennycook, Dan, an' tell her that I've kept my
word, even if she didn't keep hers. That worthless convict brother-in-
law o' yours is dead, Dan. You can quit worryin'. He'll never blackmail
you again. He's as dead as a mackerel an' I seen him buried. Dan, old
friend, _adios._"

He shook hands warmly with the yardmaster and walked over to the Silver
Dollar saloon, where, in order to smother his distress, he played game
after game of solitaire. Here, shortly after his arrival, he had
learned of Borax O'Rourke's latest move, and when the latter entered
the saloon an hour later, Harley P. had delivered his ultimatum.

For an hour after O'Rourke had left the Silver Dollar for the
ostensible purpose of purchasing a gun, the gambler continued to play
solitaire. At three o'clock he arose, kicked back his chair, sighed,
and glanced at the crowd which had been hanging around, watching him.

"Twenty games to-day an' never beat it once" he complained. "No use
talkin', boys, my luck's changed." He walked to the bar, laid a handful
of gold thereon and gave his order.

"Wine."

He turned to the crowd. "It happens that there ain't no officer o' the
law in San Pasqual to-day to interfere in the forthcoming festivities
between me an' O'Rourke. I do hope that none o' you boys'll feel called
on to interfere. I take it for granted you won't, out o' compliment to
me, an' as a further compliment I'd be obliged if you-all'd honor me to
the extent o' havin' a little nip."

The crowd shuffled to the bar, and a lanky prospector in from the dry
diggings at Coolgardie spoke up.

"I'm a stranger here, but I'll help pull a rope tight around that mule-
skinner's neck. It looks to me like a community job, an' if you say the
word, friend, I'll head a movement to relieve you o' the resk o'
cancelin' that entry."

"Thank you, old-timer" replied Mr. Hennage kindly, "but this is a
personal matter, an' it's been the custom in this town to let every man
kill his own skunks. All set, boys. Smoke up!"

Each of his guests half turned, facing the gambler. As one man they
spoke.

"How."

"How" replied Harley P., and tossed off his wine with evident relish.
He pocketed his change and left the saloon; five minutes later he was
bending over a show-case in the hardware department of the general
store, and when his purchase was completed he sat down on a keg of
nails, laid his watch on the counter before him, lit a cigar and smoked
until four o 'clock; then he arose.

He handed his watch to the proprietor.

"I'd be obliged if you was to give that watch to Dan Pennycook" he
said, and walked out.

On the threshold he paused. A train, brown with the dust of the
hundreds of miles of desert across which it had traveled, was just
pulling in to the depot, and while Mr. Hennage realized that any delay
in his programme would be a distinct strain on the idlers who had
gathered in the porch of the Silver Dollar and adjacent deadfalls to
watch the worst man in San Pasqual finally make good on his reputation,
still he was not one of the presuming kind, and he declined to make a
spectacle of himself for the edification of the travelers peering
curiously from the windows of the train.

So he waited until the train pulled out before stepping briskly into
the middle of the street, gun in hand. He crossed diagonally toward the
eating-house, watching for O'Rourke.

Suddenly a man appeared around the corner of the eating-house, a long-
barreled Colt's in his hand. Mr. Hennage raised his gun, but lowered it
again instantly, for the man was Sam Singer. The Indian ran to Mr.
Hennage's side.

"_Vamose, amigo mio_" he said in mingled Spanish and English, "me
fixum plenty good."

"Sam" said Mr. Hennage, "get out. You're interferin'. This is the white
man's burden." With a sudden sweep of his arm he tore the gun from the
Indian's hand, and waved him imperiously away, just as the crowd on the
porch of the Silver Dollar parted and Borax O'Rourke leaped into the
street.

"Git--you Injun" yelled Mr. Hennage. "If he beefs me first you take a
hack at him."

Sam Singer, weaponless, sprang around the corner of the eating-house,
just as O'Rourke, having gained the center of the street, turned, drew
his gun down on Harley P. and fired. A suppressed "A-a-h-h" went up
from the crowd as the worst man in San Pasqual sprawled forward on his
hands and knees.

O'Rourke brought his gun up, swiftly, dropped it again. Mr. Hennage's
left arm buckled under him suddenly and he slid forward on his face,
while two more bullets from the mule-skinner's gun threw the sand in
his eyes, blinding him, before ricochetting against the eating-house
wall.

Sam Singer, peering around the corner of the eating-house, saw the
gambler pick himself up slowly. There was a surprised look on his face.
He was staggering in circles and as yet he had not fired a shot.

"No luck" he muttered thickly, "no luck," and reeled toward the eating-
house. A fifth bullet scored his shoulder and crashed through the wall;
the sixth--and last--was a clean miss, and in the middle of San
Pasqual's single street Borax O'Rourke stood wonderingly, an empty
smoking gun in his hand, staring at the man reeling blindly along the
eating-house wall.

Mr. Hennage paused with his broad back against the wall. "The sand" he
muttered, blinking, and brushed his eyes with the back of his good
right hand, as Sam Singer made a quick scuttering rush around the
corner and retrieved the loaded gun which the gambler had taken from
him and which Harley P. had dropped when O'Rourke's second bullet had
shattered his left arm.

Mr. Hennage saw the Indian stooping, and flapped his broken arm in
feeble protest. Then he raised his gun.

"Borax" he said aloud, "I've got a full house," and pulled away,
O'Rourke pitched forward, and Harley P. advanced uncertainly toward
him, firing as he came, and when the gun was empty and Borax O'Rourke
as dead as Cheops, the gambler stood over his man and hurled the gun at
the still twitching body.

"Well, I've canceled that entry" he said. He stood there, swaying a
little, and a strong arm came around his fat waist. He half turned and
gazed into the sun-scorched, red-bearded face of a tall young man clad
in a ruin of weather-beaten rags.

It was Bob McGraw. He had come back. Sam Singer, reaching Mr. Hennage's
side at that moment, recognized the stranger, and realizing that Mr.
Hennage was in safe hands, the Indian dropped his gun (the one he had
taken from O'Rourke at the Hat Ranch) and fled to Donna with the news.

Mr. Hennage fixed his fading glance upon the wanderer. He wanted to say
something severe, but for the life of him--even the little he had
left--he could not; there was a puzzled look in his sand-clogged eyes
as he whispered.

"Bob, they've got the goods--on you. There's a warrant--out; you--know
--that stage hold-up--at Garlock--"

He lurched forward into Bob McGraw's arms.

"Oh, Harley, Harley, old man" said Bob McGraw in a choking voice.

"Vamose" panted Mr. Hennage. "I'm dyin', son. You can't do no good
here."

"My friend, my friend" whispered the wanderer, "don't die believing I'm
an outlaw. I didn't do it. On my word of honor, I didn't."

"I'm dyin', Bob. Give me the straight of it."

"I can't. I don't know what you're driving at, Harley. It's a mistake--"

"Everything's a mistake--I'm a mistake" muttered the gambler. "Son,
take me--to my--room--in the hotel. I'm a dog with a bad--name, but I--
don't want to--die in--the street."

Dan Pennycook, at his work among the strings of empty box-cars across
the track, had heard the shooting; had seen the crowd leave the porch
of the Silver Dollar saloon and surge out into the street. He came
running now, and upon hearing the details of the duel he pressed
through the circle of curious men who had gathered to see Harley P.
Hennage die. He found Mr. Hennage seated in the sand with his head and
shoulders supported by a stranger.

Mr. Hennage smiled his rare, trustful, childish smile as the yardmaster
approached.

"Good old Dan!" he mumbled. "He can only--think of one--thing at a--
time--like a horse--but--by God--he thinks--straight. Hello, Dan. I'm
beefed. Help Bob--carry me in--Dan. I'm so--damned--heavy an' I don't
want--any but real friends--to touch me--now."

They picked him up and carried him into the hotel, up the narrow heat-
warped stairs and down the corridor to his room. On the way down the
corridor, Mr. Hennage sniffed curiously.

"They got--new mattin' in the rooms" he gasped. "Business--must be--
lookin' up."

The crowd followed into the room, and watched Bob McGraw and Dan
Pennycook lay Mr. Hennage on his old bed. Dan Pennycook hurried for Doc
Taylor, while Bob cleared the room of the curious and locked the door.
Mr. Hennage beckoned him to his bedside.

"I ain't paid--for this bed yet" he said, "but there's money--in my
pants pocket--an' you square up--for the damage--an' the annoyance--"

The tears came into Bob McGraw's eyes as he knelt beside the bed and
took the hand of the worst man in San Pasqual in his. He could not
speak. The simplicity, the honesty of this dying stray dog had filled
his heart to overflowing; for he was young and he could weep at the
passing of a man.

"Sho," said Mr. Hennage softly, "sho, Bob. It was low down--o' me to
figure you--a crook, but the evidence--man, it was awful--but you--
when did you--marry Donnie"

"Last October--in Bakersfield."

"I know--wisht you'd invited me--give the bride away, Bob. This
wouldn't--have happened. Damn dogs! They--say--little Donnie--belongs
--east o' the tracks. I killed--O'Rourke for--thinkin' it."

A knock sounded on the door, and Bob opened it, to admit Dan Pennycook.