Richard Johnson - "An Address to the Inhabitants Of The Colonies, established in"

Sir Henry M. Stanley - "How I Found Livingstone"

Edith Bancroft - "Jane Allen: Junior"

Vaughan Kester - "The Prodigal Judge"

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 Man of the Forest

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest




"Thet's an all-fired hot ride fer water," declared the
outlaw Shady, who somehow fitted his name in color and
impression. "An', boss, if it's the same to you I won't take
it ag'in."

"Cheer up, Shady. We'll be rustlin' back in the mountains
before sundown," said Anson.

"Hang me if that ain't the cheerfulest news I've hed in some
days. Hey, Moze?"

The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.

"I'm sick an' sore of this deal," broke out Burt, evidently
encouraged by his elders. "Ever since last fall we've been
hangin' 'round -- till jest lately freezin' in camps -- no
money -- no drink -- no grub wuth havin'. All on promises!"

Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang
had struck the note of discord. Wilson seemed most detached
from any sentiment prevailing there. Some strong thoughts
were revolving in his brain.

"Burt, you ain't insinuatin' thet I made promises?" inquired
Anson, ominously.

"No, boss, I ain't. You allus said we might hit it rich. But
them promises was made to you. An' it 'd be jest like thet
greaser to go back on his word now we got the gurl."

"Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard
hyar -- Mister Riggs -- him with the big gun -- he waltzes
up with this sassy kid instead of the woman Beasley wanted."

Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly
swearing, pelted the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then
they all lapsed into surly silence. The object of their
growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little way apart, facing none of
them, but maintaining as bold a front as apparently he could
muster.

Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of
scent or sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue
they all, except Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack
of iron-shod hoofs on stone broke the silence. Riggs
nervously rose to his feet. And the others, still excepting
Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a rangy
bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his
rider jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.

"Howdy, Beasley?" was Anson's greeting.

"Hello, Snake, old man!" replied Beasley, as his bold,
snapping black eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot,
and wet with sweat, yet evidently too excited to feel
discomfort. "I seen your smoke signal first off an' jumped
my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I headed
'round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say!
-- you look queer! . . . What's wrong here? You haven't
signaled me for nothin'?

Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.

"Come out of the shade. Let him look you over."

The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had
hidden her from sight.

Beasley stared aghast -- his jaw dropped.

"Thet's the kid sister of the woman I wanted!" he
ejaculated.

"So we've jest been told."

Astonishment still held Beasley.

"Told?" he echoed. Suddenly his big body leaped with a
start. "Who got her? , Who fetched her?"

"Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar," replied Anson, with a
subtle scorn.

"Riggs, you got the wrong girl," shouted Beasley. "You made
thet mistake once before. What're you up to?"

"I chased her an' when I got her, seein' it wasn't Nell
Rayner -- why -- I kept her, anyhow," replied Riggs. "An'
I've got a word for your ear alone."

"Man, you're crazy -- queerin' my deal thet way!" roared
Beasley. "You heard my plans. . . . Riggs, this
girl-stealin' can't be done twice. Was you drinkin' or
locoed or what?"

"Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross," cut in Bo
Rayner's cool voice.

The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then
at Wilson, and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded
dark with rush of purple blood. With one lunge he knocked
Riggs flat, then stood over him with a convulsive hand at
his gun.

"You white-livered card-sharp! I've a notion to bore you. .
. . They told me you had a deal of your own, an' now I
believe it."

"Yes -- I had," replied Riggs, cautiously getting up. He was
ghastly. "But I wasn't double-crossin' you. Your deal was to
get the girl away from home so you could take possession of
her property. An' I wanted her."

"What for did you fetch the sister, then?" demanded Beasley,
his big jaw bulging.

"Because I've a plan to --"

"Plan hell! You've spoiled my plan an' I've seen about
enough of you." Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze
boded an uncertain will toward the man who had crossed him;
his hand still hung low and clutching.

"Beasley, tell them to get my horse. I want to go home,"
said Bo Rayner.

Slowly Beasley turned. Her words enjoined a silence. What to
do with her now appeared a problem.

"I had nothin' to do with fetchin' you here an' I'll have
nothin' to do with sendin' you back or whatever's done with
you," declared Beasley.

Then the girl's face flashed white again and her eyes
changed to fire.

"You're as big a liar as Riggs," she cried, passionately.
"And you're a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls.
Oh, we know your game! Milt Dale heard your plot with this
outlaw Anson to steal my sister. You ought to be hanged --
you half-breed greaser!"

"I'll cut out your tongue!" hissed Beasley.

"Yes, I'll bet you would if you had me alone. But these
outlaws -- these sheep-thieves -- these tools you hire are
better than you and Riggs. . . . What do you suppose
Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He's my sweetheart --
that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains
enough to know what he'll do to you?"

"He'll not do much," growled Beasley. But the thick purplish
blood was receding from his face. "Your cowpuncher --"

"Bah!" she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his
face. "He's from Texas! He's from TEXAS!"

"Supposin' he is from Texas?" demanded Beasley, in angry
irritation. "What's thet? Texans are all over. There's Jim
Wilson, Snake Anson's right-hand man. He's from Texas. But
thet ain't scarin' any one."

He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to
foot. The girl's flaming glance followed his hand.

"Are you from Texas?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss, I am -- an' I reckon I don't deserve it,"
replied Wilson. It was certain that a vague shame attended
his confession.

"Oh! I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a
helpless girl!" she replied, in withering scorn of
disappointment.

Jim Wilson dropped his head. If any one there suspected a
serious turn to Wilson's attitude toward that situation it
was the keen outlaw leader.

"Beasley, you're courtin' death," he broke in.

"You bet you are!" added Bo, with a passion that made her
listeners quiver. "You've put me at the mercy of a gang of
outlaws! You may force my sister out of her home! But your
day will come.' Tom Carmichael will KILL you."

Beasley mounted his horse. Sullen, livid, furious, he sat
shaking in the saddle, to glare down at the outlaw leader.

"Snake, thet's no fault of mine the deal's miscarried. I was
square. I made my offer for the workin' out of my plan. It
'ain't been done. Now there's hell to pay an' I'm through."

"Beasley, I reckon I couldn't hold you to anythin'," replied
Anson, slowly. "But if you was square you ain't square now.
We've hung around an' tried hard. My men are all sore. An'
we're broke, with no outfit to speak of. Me an' you never
fell out before. But I reckon we might."

"Do I owe you any money -- accordin' to the deal?" demanded
Beasley.

"No, you don't," responded Anson, sharply.

"Then thet's square. I wash my hands of the whole deal. Make
Riggs pay up. He's got money an' he's got plans. Go in with
him."

With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away.
The outlaws gazed after him until he disappeared in the
cedars.

"What'd you expect from a greaser?" queried Shady Jones.

"Anson, didn't I say so?" added Burt.

The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and
Jim Wilson studiously examined a stick he held in his hands.
Riggs showed immense relief.

"Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an' I'll ride off
with the girl," he said, eagerly.

"Where'd you go now?" queried Anson, curiously.

Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were
no more equal to this predicament than his nerve.

"You're no woodsman. An' onless you're plumb locoed you'd
never risk goin' near Pine or Show Down. There'll be real
trackers huntin' your trail."

The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.

"Don't let him take me off -- alone -- in the woods!" she
faltered. That was the first indication of her weakening.

Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. "I'm not bossin' this
gang."

"But you're a man!" she importuned.

"Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an' come
with us," said Anson, craftily. "I'm particular curious to
see her brand you."

"Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine," said Jim Wilson.

Anson swore his amaze.

"It's sense," continued Wilson. "We've shore got our own
troubles, an' keepin' her 'll only add to them. I've a
hunch. Now you know I ain't often givin' to buckin' your
say-so. But this deal ain't tastin' good to me. Thet girl
ought to be sent home."

"But mebbe there's somethin' in it for us. Her sister 'd pay
to git her back."

"Wal, I shore hope you'll recollect I offered -- thet's
all," concluded Wilson.

"Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we'd let Riggs take her
off," remonstrated the outlaw leader. He was perturbed and
undecided. Wilson worried him.

The long Texan veered around full faced. What subtle
transformation in him!

"Like hell we would!" he said.

It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail.
He might have been leader here, but he was not the greater
man. His face clouded.

"Break camp," he ordered.

Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between
Anson and Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get
his horse.

In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and
Moze were in the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode
next, the girl came between him and Riggs, and
significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the rear.

This start was made a little after the noon hour. They
zigzagged up the slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed
it up to where it headed in the level forest. From there
travel was rapid, the pack-horses being driven at a jogtrot.
Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket into a
glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the
cavalcade. His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the
men rode on, leaving him behind to dress and pack the meat.
The only other halt made was at the crossing of the first
water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses and men drank
thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades.

They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail
through the deepening forest, and climbed, bench after
bench, to higher ground, while the sun sloped to the
westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone, and twilight
was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson,
breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.

The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark
slopes of spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in
abundance. All the men were off, throwing saddles and packs,
before the tired girl made an effort to get down. Riggs,
observing her, made a not ungentle move to pull her off. She
gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.

"Keep your paws to yourself," she said. No evidence of
exhaustion was there in her spirit.

Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.

"What come off?" he asked.

"Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the
lady -- as he was doin' the elegant," replied Moze, who
stood nearest.

"Jim, was you watchin'?" queried Anson. His curiosity had
held through the afternoon.

"He tried to yank her off an' she biffed him," replied
Wilson.

"That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed," said Snake, in
an aside to Moze.

"Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he'll hoodoo
this outfit. Jim was figgerin' correct."

"Hoodoo --" cursed Anson, under his breath.

Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was
burning brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the
odor of venison permeated the cool air. The girl had at last
slipped off her saddle to the ground, where she sat while
Riggs led the horse away. She sat there apparently
forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.

Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among
the spruces. One by one they fell with swish and soft crash.
Then the sliding ring of the ax told how he was slicing off
the branches with long sweeps. Presently he appeared in the
semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed spruces behind him. He
made several trips, the last of which was to stagger under a
huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a low,
projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy
spruces slantingly against this branch on both sides,
quickly improvising a V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture
in front. Next from one of the packs he took a blanket and
threw that inside the shelter. Then, touching the girl on
the shoulder, he whispered:

"When you're ready, slip in there. An' don't lose no sleep
by worryin', fer I'll be layin' right here."

He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of
the narrow aperture.

"Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan," she whispered
back.

"Mebbe," was his gloomy reply.



CHAPTER XXI

The girl refused to take food proffered her by Riggs, but
she ate and drank a little that Wilson brought her, then she
disappeared in the spruce lean-to.

Whatever loquacity and companionship had previously existed
in Snake Anson's gang were not manifest in this camp. Each
man seemed preoccupied, as if pondering the dawn in his mind
of an ill omen not clear to him yet and not yet dreamed of
by his fellows. They all smoked. Then Moze and Shady played
cards awhile by the light of the fire, but it was a dull
game, in which either seldom spoke. Riggs sought his blanket
first, and the fact was significant that he lay down some
distance from the spruce shelter which contained Bo Rayner.
Presently young Burt went off grumbling to his bed. And not
long afterward the card-players did likewise.

Snake Anson and Jim Wilson were left brooding in silence
beside the dying camp-fire.

The night was dark, with only a few stars showing. A fitful
wind moaned unearthly through the spruce. An occasional
thump of hoof sounded from the dark woods. No cry of wolf or
coyote or cat gave reality to the wildness of forest-land.

By and by those men who had rolled in their blankets were
breathing deep and slow in heavy slumber.

"Jim, I take it this hyar Riggs has queered our deal," said
Snake Anson, in low voice.

"I reckon," replied Wilson.

"An' I'm feared he's queered this hyar White Mountain
country fer us."

"Shore I 'ain't got so far as thet. What d' ye mean, Snake?"

"Damme if I savvy," was the gloomy reply. "I only know what
was bad looks growin' wuss. Last fall -- an' winter -- an'
now it's near April. We've got no outfit to make a long
stand in the woods. . . . Jim, jest how strong is thet
Beasley down in the settlements?"

"I've a hunch he ain't half as strong as he bluffs."

"Me, too. I got thet idee yesterday. He was scared of the
kid -- when she fired up an' sent thet hot-shot about her
cowboy sweetheart killin' him. He'll do it, Jim. I seen that
Carmichael at Magdalena some years ago. Then he was only a
youngster. But, whew! Mebbe he wasn't bad after toyin' with
a little red liquor."

"Shore. He was from Texas, she said."

"Jim, I savvied your feelin's was hurt -- by thet talk about
Texas -- an' when she up an' asked you."

Wilson had no rejoinder for this remark.

"Wal, Lord knows, I ain't wonderin'. You wasn't a hunted
outlaw all your life. An' neither was I. . . . Wilson, I
never was keen on this girl deal -- now, was I?"

"I reckon it's honest to say no to thet," replied Wilson.
But it's done. Beasley 'll get plugged sooner or later. Thet
won't help us any. Chasin' sheep-herders out of the country
an' stealin' sheep -- thet ain't stealin' gurls by a long
sight. Beasley 'll blame that on us, an' be greaser enough
to send some of his men out to hunt us. For Pine an' Show
Down won't stand thet long. There's them Mormons. They'll be
hell when they wake up. Suppose Carmichael got thet hunter
Dale an' them hawk-eyed Beemans on our trail?"

"Wal, we'd cash in -- quick," replied Anson, gruffly.

"Then why didn't you let me take the gurl back home?"

"Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I'm sore, an' I need money
-- an' I knowed you'd never take a dollar from her sister.
An' I've made up my mind to git somethin' out of her."

"Snake, you're no fool. How 'll you do thet same an' do it
quick?"

"'Ain't reckoned it out yet."

"Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an' thet's all," returned
Wilson, gloomily.

"Jim, what's ailin' you?"

"I'll let you figger thet out."

"Wal, somethin' ails the whole gang," declared Anson,
savagely. "With them it's nothin' to eat -- no whisky -- no
money to bet with -- no tobacco!. . . But thet's not what's
ailin' you, Jim Wilson, nor me!"

"Wal, what is, then?" queried Wilson.

"With me it's a strange feelin' thet my day's over on these
ranges. I can't explain, but it jest feels so. Somethin' in
the air. I don't like them dark shadows out there under the
spruces. Savvy? . . . An' as fer you, Jim -- wal, you allus
was half decent, an' my gang's got too lowdown fer you."

"Snake, did I ever fail you?"

"No, you never did. You're the best pard I ever knowed. In
the years we've rustled together we never had a contrary
word till I let Beasley fill my ears with his promises.
Thet's my fault. But, Jim, it's too late."

"It mightn't have been too late yesterday."

"Mebbe not. But it is now, an' I'll hang on to the girl or
git her worth in gold," declared the outlaw, grimly.

"Snake, I've seen stronger gangs than yours come an' go.
Them Big Bend gangs in my country -- them rustlers -- they
were all bad men. You have no likes of them gangs out heah.
If they didn't get wiped out by Rangers or cowboys, why they
jest naturally wiped out themselves. Thet's a law I
recognize in relation to gangs like them. An' as for yours
-- why, Anson, it wouldn't hold water against one real
gun-slinger."

"A-huh' Then if we ran up ag'in' Carmichael or some such
fellar -- would you be suckin' your finger like a baby?"

"Wal, I wasn't takin' count of myself. I was takin'
generalities."

"Aw, what 'n hell are them?" asked Anson, disgustedly. Jim,
I know as well as you thet this hyar gang is hard put. We're
goin' to be trailed an' chased. We've got to hide -- be on
the go all the time -- here an' there -- all over, in the
roughest woods. An' wait our chance to work south."

"Shore. But, Snake, you ain't takin' no count of the
feelin's of the men -- an' of mine an' yours. . . . I'll bet
you my hoss thet in a day or so this gang will go to
pieces."

"I'm feared you spoke what's been crowdin' to git in my
mind," replied Anson. Then he threw up his hands in a
strange gesture of resignation. The outlaw was brave, but
all men of the wilds recognized a force stronger than
themselves. He sat there resembling a brooding snake with
basilisk eyes upon the fire. At length he arose, and without
another word to his comrade he walked wearily to where lay
the dark, quiet forms of the sleepers.

Jim Wilson remained beside the flickering fire. He was
reading something in the red embers, perhaps the past.
Shadows were on his face, not all from the fading flames or
the towering spruces. Ever and anon he raised his head to
listen, not apparently that he expected any unusual sound,
but as if involuntarily. Indeed, as Anson had said, there
was something nameless in the air. The black forest breathed
heavily, in fitful moans of wind. It had its secrets. The
glances Wilson threw on all sides betrayed that any hunted
man did not love the dark night, though it hid him. Wilson
seemed fascinated by the life inclosed there by the black
circle of spruce. He might have been reflecting on the
strange reaction happening to every man in that group, since
a girl had been brought among them. Nothing was clear,
however; the forest kept its secret, as did the melancholy
wind; the outlaws were sleeping like tired beasts, with
their dark secrets locked in their hearts.

After a while Wilson put some sticks on the red embers, then
pulled the end of a log over them. A blaze sputtered up,
changing the dark circle and showing the sleepers with their
set, shadowed faces upturned. Wilson gazed on all of them, a
sardonic smile on his lips, and then his look fixed upon the
sleeper apart from the others -- Riggs. It might have been
the false light of flame and shadow that created Wilson's
expression of dark and terrible hate. Or it might have been
the truth, expressed in that lonely, unguarded hour, from
the depths of a man born in the South -- a man who by his
inheritance of race had reverence for all womanhood -- by
whose strange, wild, outlawed bloody life of a gun-fighter
he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and
mocked his fame.

It was a long gaze Wilson rested upon Riggs -- as strange
and secretive as the forest wind moaning down the great
aisles -- and when that dark gaze was withdrawn Wilson
stalked away to make his bed with the stride of one ill whom
spirit had liberated force.

He laid his saddle in front of the spruce shelter where the
girl had entered, and his tarpaulin and blankets likewise
and then wearily stretched his long length to rest.

The camp-fire blazed up, showing the exquisite green. and
brown-flecked festooning of the spruce branches, symmetrical
and perfect, yet so irregular, and then it burned out and
died down, leaving all in the dim gray starlight. The horses
were not moving around; the moan of night wind had grown
fainter; the low hum of insects, was dying away; even the
tinkle of the brook had diminished. And that growth toward
absolute silence continued, yet absolute silence was never
attained. Life abided in the forest; only it had changed its
form for the dark hours.


Anson's gang did not bestir themselves at the usual early
sunrise hour common to all woodsmen, hunters, or outlaws, to
whom the break of day was welcome. These companions -- Anson
and Riggs included -- might have hated to see the dawn come.
It meant only another meager meal, then the weary packing
and the long, long ride to nowhere in particular, and
another meager meal -- all toiled for without even the
necessities of satisfactory living, and assuredly without
the thrilling hopes that made their life significant, and
certainly with a growing sense of approaching calamity.

The outlaw leader rose surly and cross-grained. He had to
boot Burt to drive him out for the horses. Riggs followed
him. Shady Jones did nothing except grumble. Wilson, by
common consent, always made the sour-dough bread, and he was
slow about it this morning. Anson and Moze did the rest of
the work, without alacrity. The girl did not appear.

"Is she dead?" growled Anson.

"No, she ain't," replied Wilson, looking up. "She's
sleepin'. Let her sleep. She'd shore be a sight better off
if she was daid."

"A-huh! So would all of this hyar outfit," was Anson's
response.

"Wal, Sna-ake, I shore reckon we'll all be thet there soon,"
drawled Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone
that said so much more than the content of the words.

Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again.

Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the
horses; Riggs followed shortly with several more. But three
were missed, one of them being Anson's favorite. He would
not have budged without that horse. During breakfast he
growled about his lazy men, and after the meal tried to urge
them off. Riggs went unwillingly. Burt refused to go at all.

"Nix. I footed them hills all I'm a-goin' to," he said. "An'
from now on I rustle my own hoss."

The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps
his sense of fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered
Shady and Moze out to do their share.

"Jim, you're the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you
go," suggested Anson. "You allus used to be the first one
off."

"Times has changed, Snake," was the imperturbable reply.

"Wal, won't you go?" demanded the leader, impatiently.

"I shore won't."

Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not
leave the girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson's
gang, but the truth was as significant as if he had shouted
it. The slow-thinking Moze gave Wilson a sinister look.

"Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench --?" began Shady
Jones, sarcastically.

"Shut up, you fool!" broke in Anson. "Come on, I'll help
rustle them hosses."

After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off
into the forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down,
her face pale, with dark shadows. She asked for water to
wash her face. Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she
walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf
from his pack and carried them to her.