Chapter 1 of Traylon. Reading by Rowdy Delaney, Idaho, USA. Traylon. By Max Brand. Chapter 1 Ladies and Gentlemen. All through the exhibition, the two sat unmoved, yet on the whole it was the best Wild West show that ever stirred sawdust in Madison Square Garden, and it brought thunders of applause from the crowded house. Even if the performances could not stir these two, at least the throng of spectators should have drawn them. For all New York was there, from the richest to the poorest, neither the combined audiences of a seven-day race, a prize fight, or a community-singing festival would make such a cosmopolitan assembly. All Manhattan came to look at the men who lived and fought and conquered under the limitless skies of the Far West, free men, wild men. One of their shrill whoops banished distance and brought the mountain desert into the heart of the unromantic East. Nevertheless, from all these thrills these two men remained immune. To be sure, the smaller tilted his head back when the horses first swept in, and the larger leaned to watch when Diaz, the wizard with the lariat, commenced to whirl his rope. But in both cases their interest held no longer than if they had been old vaudevillians watching a series of familiar acts dressed up with new names. The smaller, brown as if a thousand fierce suns and winds had tanned and withered him, looked up at last to his burly companion with a faint smile. Their bringing in the cream now drew, but I'm going to spoil the dessert. The other was a great gray man, whom age apparently had not weakened, but rather settled and hardened into an iron-like durability. The winds of time, or misfortune, would have to break that staunch oak before it would bend. He said, We've half an hour before the train leaves. Can you play your hand in that time? Easy! Look at him now, the greatest gang of liars that never threw at Diamond Hitch. Right? I've got a ten-year-old kid at home that would laugh at him all, but I'll show him up. Want to know my little stunt? I'll wait and enjoy the surprise. The wild riders who provoked the scorn of the smaller man were now gathering in the central space, a formidable crew, long of hair, and brilliant as to bandanas, while the announcer thundered through his megaphone. Ladies and gentlemen, you see before you the greatest band of subduers and breakers of wild horses that ever rode the cattle ranges. Death-defying, reckless, and laughing at peril, they have never failed. They have never pulled leather. I present Happy Morgan. Happy Morgan, yelling like one possessed of ten shrill-tongued demons, burst on the gallop away from the others, and spurring his horse cruelly, forced the animal to race, bucking and plunging, halfway around the arena and back to the group. This, then, was a type of daredevil horse-breaker of the Wild West? The cheers traveled in waves around and around the house, and rocked back and forth like water pitched from side to side in a monstrous bowl. When the noise abated somewhat. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the peerless cow-puncher, Bud Reeves. Bud at once imitated the example of Happy Morgan, and one after another the five remaining riders followed suit. In the meantime a number of prancing, kicking, savaged-eyed horses were brought into the arena, and to these the master of ceremonies now turned his attention. From the wildest regions of the range we have brought mustangs that never have borne the weight of man. They fight for pleasure, they buck by instinct. If you doubt it, step down and try them, one hundred dollars to the man who sticks on the back of one of them, but we won't pay the hospital bills. He lowered his megaphone to enjoy the laughter, and the small man took this opportunity to say, Never borne the weight of man. That chap in the dress suit, he tells one lie for pleasure, and ten more from instinct. Yep, he has his hosses beat. Never borne the weight of man. Why, Drew, I can see the saddle marks clear from here. I got a mind to slip down there, and pick up the easiest hundred bones that ever rolled my way.  Well, I soon will be. Watch me. There goes Ananias on his second wind. The announcer was bellowing. These man-killing mustangs will be ridden, broken, beaten into submission in fair fight, by the greatest set of horse-breakers that ever wore spurs. They can ride anything that walks on four feet and wears a skin. They can—Werther sprang to his feet, made a funnel of his hands, and shouted, Yep! If he had set off a great quantity of red fire, he could not more effectively have drawn all eyes upon him. The weird, shrill yell cut the ringmaster short, and a pleased murmur ran through the crowd. Of course, this must be part of the show, but it was a pleasing variation. Here, continued Werther, brushing away the big hand of Drew, which would have pulled him down into his seat, I've seen you blush for two nights hand-running. There ain't no man can bluff all the world three times straight. The ringmaster retorted in his great voice, That sounds like good poker, what's your game? Five hundred dollars on one card cried Werther, and waved a fluttering handful of green-backs, Five hundred dollars to any man of your lot, or to any man in the house that can ride a real wild horse. Where's your horse? Around the corner in a twenty-six street stable, I'll have him here in five minutes. Lead him on, cried the ringmaster, but his voice was not quite so loud. Werther muttered to Drew, Here's where I hand him the lemon that'll curdle his cream, and ran out of the box and straight around the edge of the arena, New York murmuring and chuckling through the vast galleries of the garden applauded the little man's flying coattails. He had not underestimated the time. In a little less than five minutes the doors at the end of the arena were thrown wide, and Werther reappeared. Behind him came two stalwarts leading between them a rangy monster, before the blast of lights and the murmurs of the throng the big stallion reared and flung himself back, and the two who led him bore down with all their weight on the halter-ropes. He literally walked down the planks into the arena, a strange, half-comical, half-terrible spectacle. New York burst into applause. It was a trained horse, of course, but a horse capable of such training was worth applause. At the roar of sound, vague as the beat of waves along the shore, the stallion lurched down on all fours and leapt ahead, but the two on the halter-ropes drove all their weight backward and checked the first plunge. A bright-colored scarf waved from a nearby box, and the monster swerved away. So, twisting, plunging, rearing, he was worked down the arena. As he came opposite a box in which sat a tall young man in evening clothes, the latter rose and shouted, Bravo! The fury of the stallion, searching on all sides for a vent, but distracted from one torment to another, centered suddenly on this slender figure. He swerved and rushed for the barrier, with ears flat back and bloodshot eyes. Then he reared and struck at the wood with his great front hooves. The boards splintered and shivered under the blows. As for the youth in the box, he remained quietly erect before this brute rage.  He drew his handkerchief and wiped it calmly away, but a red stain remained. At the same time, the two who led the stallion pulled him back from the barrier, and he stood with head high, searching for a more convenient victim. Deep silence spread over the arena. More hushed and more hushed it grew, as if invisible blankets of soundlessness were dropping down over the stirring masses. Men glanced at each other with a vague surmise, knowing that this was no part of the performance. The whole audience drew forward to the edge of the seats and stared, first at the monstrous horse, and next at the group of men who could ride anything that walks on four feet and wears a skin. Some of the women were already turning away their heads, for this was to be a battle, not a game, but the vast majority of New York merely watched and waited, and smiled a slow, stiff-lipped smile. All the surroundings were changed, the flaring electric lights, the vast roof, the clothes of the multitude, but the throng of white faces was the same as that pale host which looked down from the sides of the Colosseum when the lions were loosed upon their victims. As for the wild riders from the cattle ranges, they drew into a close group with the ringmaster between them and the gone stallion, almost as if the fearless ones were seeking for protection, but the announcer himself lost his almost invincible sang foire. In all his matchless vocabulary there was no sounding phrases ready for this occasion, and little werether strutted in the center of the great arena rising to his opportunity. He imitated the ringmaster's phraseology, Ladies and gentlemen, the price has gone up, the death-defying, dare-doubles that laugh at danger ain't none too ready to ride my horse, maybe the price is too low for him. It's raised one thousand dollars, cash, for any man in hearing of me that'll ride my pet. There was a stir among the cattlemen, but none of them moved forward toward the great horse, and as if he sensed his victory he raised and shook his ugly head and made. A mighty laugh answered that challenge. This was a sort of horse-humour that great New York could not overlook, and in that mirth even the big grey man Drew joined. The laughter stopped with an amazing suddenness, making the following silence impressive as when a storm that has roared and howled about a house falls mute. Then all the dwellers in the house looked to one another, and wait for the voice of the thunder. So all of New York, that sat in the long galleries of the garden, hushed its laughter, and looked a sconce at one another, and waited. The big grey man rose and cursed softly. For the slender young fellow in the evening-dress, at whom the stallion had rushed a moment before, was stripping off his coat, his vest, and rolling up the stiff cuffs of his sleeves. Then he dropped a hand to the edge of the box, vaulted lightly into the arena, and walked straight toward the horse. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 SPORTING CHANCE It might easily have been made melodramatic by any hesitation as he approached, but with a business-like directness he went right up to the men who held the fighting horse. He said, put a saddle on him, boys, and I'll try my hand. They could not answer at once, for Werther's pet, as if he recognized the newcomer, made a sudden lunge and was brought to a stop only after he dragged his sweating handlers around and around in a small circle. Here Werther himself came running up, puffing with surprise. Son, he said eagerly, I'm not aiming to do you no harm. I was only calling the bluff of those four flushers. The slender youth finished rolling up his left sleeve, and smiled down at the other. Put on the saddle, he said. Werther looked up at him anxiously, then his eyes brightened with a solution. He stepped closer and laid a hand on the other's arm. Son, if you're broke and want to get the price of a few squares, just say the word, and I'll fix you.  He ain't just a buckin' horse. He's a man-killer, lad. I'm telling you straight, and this floor ain't so soft as the saw-dust makes it look. He ended with a grin. The young man considered the animal seriously. I'm not broke. I've simply taken a fancy to your horse. If you don't mind, I'd like to try him out. Seems too bad, in a way, for a brute like that to put it over on ten thousand people without getting a run for his money. A sporting chance, eh? And he laughed with great good nature. What's your name? asked Werther, his small eyes growing round and wide. Anthony Woodbury. Mines Werther. They shook hands. City raised? Yes. Didn't know they came in this style east of the Rockies, Woodbury. I hope I lose my thousand, but if there was any betting, I'd stake ten to one against you. In the meantime, some of the range-riders had thrown a coat over the head of the stallion, and while he stood there quivering with helpless rage, they flung a saddle on and drew the cinches taut. Anthony Woodbury was saying with a smile. Just for the sake of the game, I'll take you on for a few hundred, Mr. Werther, if you wish, but I can't accept odds. Werther ran his finger under his collar, apparently to facilitate breathing. His eyes, roving wildly, wandered over the white, silent mass of faces, and his glance picked out and lingered for a moment on the big-shouldered figure of Drew, erect in his box. At last his glance came back with an intent frown to Woodbury. Something in the keen eyes of their lad raised a responsive flicker in his own. Well, I'll be damned. Just a game, huh? Lad, no matter what side of the Rockies you were born on, I know your breed, and I won't lay a penny against your money. There's the haws, saddled, and there's the floor you'll land on. Go to it, and God help you. The other shook his shoulders back and stepped toward the horse with a peculiarly unpleasant smile, like a pugilist coming out of his corner toward an opponent of unknown prowess. He said, Take off the halter! One of the men snapped viciously over his shoulder. Climb on, while the climbers good. Cut out the bluff, partner. The smile went out on the lips of Woodbury. He repeated, Take off the halter! They stared at him, but it quickly began to fumble under the coat, unfastening the buckle. It required a moment to work off the heavy halter without giving the blinded animal a glimpse of the light. Then Woodbury caught the bridal reins firmly just beneath the chin of the horse. With the other hand he took the stirrup's strap and raised his foot, but he seemed to change his mind about this matter. Take off the blinder, he ordered. It was Werther who interposed this time with. Look here, lad. I know this, Hoss. The minute the blinders off, he'll up on his hind legs and bash you into the floor with his forefeet. Let him go, growled one of the cowboys.  But taking the matter into his own hands, Woodbury snatched the coat from the head of the stallion, which snorted and reared up, mouth agape, ears flattened back. There was a shout from the man, not a cry of dismay, but a ringing battle yell like some ancient berserker seeing the first flash of swords in the melee. He leaped forward, jerking down on the bridal reins with all the force of his weight and his spring. The horse, caught in mid-air as it were, came floundering down on all fours again. Before he could make another move, Woodbury caught the high horn of the saddle and vaulted up to his seat. It was gallantly done, and in response came a great wrestling from the multitude. There was not a spoken word, but every man was on his feet. Perhaps what followed took their breaths and kept them speechless. The first touch of the rider's weight sent the stallion mad, not blind with fear as most horses go, but raging with a devilish cunning like that of an insane man, a thing that made the blood run cold to watch. He stood a moment shuddering, as if the strange truth were slowly dawning on his brute mind. Then he bolted straight for the barriers. Woodbury braced himself and lunged back on the reins, but he might as well have tugged at the mooring cable of a great ship. The bit was in the monster's teeth. Then a whisper reached the rider, a universal hushing of drawn breath, for the thousands were tasting the first thrill and terror of the combat.  At the last moment he swerved and raced close beside the fence. Some projecting edge caught the trousers of Woodbury and ripped away the stout cloth from hip to heel. He swung far to the other side and wrenched back the reins. With stiff braced legs the stallion slid to a halt that flung the unbalanced rider forward along his neck. Before he could straighten himself in the saddle the horse roared and came down on rigid forelegs, yet by a miracle Woodbury clung, sprawled down the side of the monster to be sure, but not quite dismounted. Another pitch of the same nature would have freed the stallion from his rider beyond doubt. But he elected to gallop full speed ahead the length of the arena and during that time Woodbury, stunned though he was, managed to drag himself back into the saddle. The end of the race was a leap into the air that would have cleared a five-bar fence and down pitched the fighting horse on braced legs again. Woodbury's chin snapped down against his breast as though he had been struck behind the head with a heavy blow. But though his brain was stunned the fighting instinct remained strong in him and when the stallion reared and toppled back the rider slipped from the saddle in the nick of time. Fourteen hundred pounds of raging horse flesh crashed into the sawdust. He rolled like a cat to his feet but at the same instant a flying weight leapt through the air and landed in the saddle. The audience awoke to the sound. To a dull roar of noise a thin trickle of blood ran from Woodbury's mouth and it seemed that the mob knew it and was yelling for a death. There followed a bewildering exhibition of such bucking that the disgruntled cowboys forgot their shame and shouted with joy. Upon his hind legs and then down on his forefeet with a sickening heart-breaking jar the stallion rocked. Now he bucked from side to side. Now rose and whirled about like a dancer. Now toppled to the ground and twisted again to his feet. Still the rider clung. His head rocked back with ceaseless jars. The red-stained lips writhed back and showed the locked teeth. Yet as if he scorned the struggles of the stallion he brought into play the heavy quart which had been handed him as he mounted. Over neck and shoulders and tender flanks he whirled the lash. It was not intelligence fighting brute strength but one animal conquering another and rejoicing in the battle. The horse responded. Furiously he responded. But still the lash fell and the bucking grew more cunning, perhaps but less violent. Yet to the wildly cheering audience the fight seemed more dubious than ever. Then in the center of the arena the stallion stopped in the midst of a twisting course of bucking and stood with widely braced legs and fallen head. Strength was left in him but the cunning, savage mind knew defeat. Once more the quart whirled in the air and fell with a resounding crack but the stallion merely switched his tail and started forward at a clumsy, stumbling trot. The thunder of the host was too hoarse for applause. They saw a victory and a defeat but what they had wanted was blood and a death. They had had a promise and a taste. Now they hungered for the reality. Woodbury slipped from the saddle and gave the reins to Werther. Already a crowd was growing about them of the curious who had sprung over the barriers and swarmed across the arena to see the conqueror. For had he not vindicated unanswerably the strength of the East as compared with that of the West? Boys shouted shrilly, men shouldered each other to slap him on the back, but Werther merely held forth a handful of green backs. The conqueror braced himself against the saddle with trembling hand and shook his head. Not for me, he said, I ought to pay you, ten times that much for the sport, compared to this polo is nothing. Ah, muttered those who overheard polo, that explains it. Then take the horse, Werther said, because no one else could ride him. And now anyone else could ride him, so I don't want him, answered Woodbury. And Werther grinned, you're right, boy. I'll give him to the Iceman. The big gray man, William Drew, loomed over the heads of the little crowd, and they gave way before him as water divides under the prow of a ship. It was as if he cast a shadow, which they feared before him. Help me through this mob, said Woodbury to Werther, and back to my box. Devil, take it, my overcoat won't cover that leg. Then on him also fell, as it seemed, the approaching shadow of the gray man, and he looked up with something of a start into the keen eyes of Drew. Son, said the big man, you look sort of familiar to me. I'm asking your pardon, but who was your mother? The eyes of young Woodbury narrowed, and the two stood considering each other gravely, for a long moment. I never saw her, he said at last, and then turned with a frown to work his way through the crowd and back to his box. The tall man hesitated a moment, and then started in pursuit, but the mob intervened. He turned back to Werther. Did you get his name, he asked? Fine bit of writing he showed, eh? cried the little man. And turned down my thousand as cool as you please, I tell you, there's some flint in these Easterners after all. Damn the Easterners! What's his name? Woodbury. Anthony Woodbury. Woodbury? What's wrong with that name? Nothing, only I'm a bit surprised. And he frowned with a puzzled, wistful expression, staring straight ahead, like a man striving to solve a great riddle. End of Chapter 2. CHAPTER 3. SOCIAL SUICIDE At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and overcoat, and pull his hat down over his eyes. Then he hurried toward an exit, but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with him. They had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and then swooped down on him. He continued his flight, shaking off their harrying questions, but they kept up the running fight, and at the door one of them reached his side with, it's Mr. Woodbury, of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr. John Woodbury, of Anson Place. Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning reporter by the arm. Come with me. Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of the reporter. He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, in obedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back and followed the flight with grumbling envy. On 26th Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue, stood a big touring car with a chauffeur waiting in the front seat. There were still some followers from the garden. Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, and called, Start ahead, McLaren, drive anywhere, but get moving. Now, sir, turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum, what's your name? Bantry? Bantry? Glad to know you. He shook hands. You know me? Certainly, I cover sports all the way from polo to golf. Anthony Woodbury, Westfall Polo Club, then golf, tennis, trap shooting? Enough, groaned the victim. Now look here, Bantry. You have me dead to rights. Got me with the goods, so to speak, haven't you? It was a great bit of work, ought to make a first page story. And the other groaned again. I know, Son of Millionaire rides unbroken horse in Wild West Show, and all that sort of thing. But, good Lord, man, think of what it will mean to me. Nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Your father will be proud of you. Woodbury looked at him sharply. How do you know that? Any man would be. But the notoriety, man, it would kill me with a lot of people, as thoroughly as if I'd put the muzzle of a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. Hmm, muttered the reporter. Sort of social suicide, all right. But it's news, Mr. Woodbury, and the editor, expects you to write as much as the rest of the paper's print, and none of the other reporters know me. One or two of them might have. But my dear fellow, won't you take a chance? Bantry made a rye face. Madison's square garden went on Woodbury bitterly. Ten thousand people looking on. Gad, man, it's awful. Why'd you do it then? Couldn't help it, Bantry, by Jove, when that wicked devil of a horse came at my box, and I caught a glimpse of the red demon in his eyes. Why, man, I simply had to get down and try my luck. Ever play football? Yes, quite a while ago. Then you know how it is when you're in the bleachers and the whistle blows for the game to begin. That's the way it was with me. I wanted to climb down into the field, and I did.  Now, Bantry, I appeal to you, for the sake of your old football days. Don't show me up. Keep my name quiet. I'd like to. Damned if I wouldn't. But a scoop. Anthony Woodbury considered his companion with a strange yearning. It might have been to take him by the throat. It might have been some gentler motive. But his hand stole at last toward an inner coat pocket. He said, I know times are a bit lean now and then in your game, Bantry. I wonder if you could use a bit of the long green. Just now I'm very flush, and— He produced a thickly stuffed billfold. But Bantry smiled and touched Woodbury's arm. Couldn't possibly, you know. He considered a moment and then with a smile. It's a bit awkward for both of us, isn't it? Suppose I keep your name under my hat, and you give me a few little inside tips now and then on the polo news, and that sort of thing. Here's my hand on it.  We've circled about and are pretty close to the garden again. Could you let me out here? The car rolled to an easy stop and the reporter stepped out. I'll forget everything you wish, Mr. Woodbury. It's an honor to have met you, sir. Use me whenever you can. Good night. To the chauffeur, he said, home and make it fast. They passed up Lexington with McLaren making it fast, so that the big car was continually nosing its way around the machines in front with much honking of the horn. At fifty-ninth street they turned across to the bridge and hummed softly across the black shimmering waters of the East River. By the time they reached Brooklyn a fine mist was beginning to fall, blurring the windshield, and McLaren slowed up perceptibly, so that before they passed the heart of the city, Woodbury leaned forward and said, What's the matter, McLaren? Wet streets, no chains. The windshield is pretty hard to see through. Stop her then. I'll take the wheel the rest of the way. I want to travel a bit tonight. The chauffeur, as if this exchange were something he had been expecting, made no demure, and a moment later, with Woodbury at the wheel, the motor began to hum again in a gradually increasing crescendo. Two or three motor police glanced after the car as it snapped about the corners with an ominous skid and straightened out, whining on the new street. But in each case, having made a comfortable number of arrests that day, they had little heart for the pursuit of the gray monster through that chill mist. Past Brooklyn, with a country road before them, Woodbury cut out the muffler, and the car sprang forward with a roar. A gust of increasing wind whipped back to McLaren, for the windshield had been opened so that the driver need not look through the dripping glass, and mingling with the wet gale were snatches of singing. The chauffeur, partly in understanding, and partly from anxiety, apparently, caught the side of the seat in a firm grip and leaned forward to break the jar when they struck rough places. Around an elbow turn they went with one warning scream of the klaxon, skidded horribly at the sharp angle of the curve, and missed by inches a car from the opposite direction. They swept on with the startled yell of the other party ringing after them, drowned out at once by the crackling of the exhaust. McLaren raised a fruit of hand to wipe from his forehead a moisture which was not altogether rain, but immediately grasped the side of the seat again. Right ahead the road swung up to meet a bridge, and dropped sharply away from it on the farther side. McLaren groaned, but the sound was lost in the increasing roar of the exhaust. They barely touched that bridge, and shot off into space on the other side, like a hurdler clearing an obstacle. With a creak, and a thud, the big car landed, reeled drunkenly, and straightened out in earnest. McLaren craned his head to see this pedometer, but had not the heart to look. He began to curse softly, steadily. When the muffler went on again, and the motor was reduced to a loud angry humming, Woodbury caught a few phrases of those solemn implications. He grinned into the black heart of the night, streaked with lines of gray where therein entered a halo of the headlights, and then swung the car through an open iron gate. The motor fell to a drowsily contented murmur that blended with the cool swishing of the tires on wet gravel. McLaren said the other, as he stopped in front of the garage, if every one was as good a passenger as you, I'd enjoy motoring.  There's no fight in it. And he started toward the house, but McLaren, staring after the departing figure, muttered, There's only one sort that's worse than a damn fool, and that's a young one. It was through a door opening off the veranda that Anthony entered the house, stealthily as a burglar, and with the same nervous apprehension. Before him stretched a wide hall, dimly illumined by a single light which splashed on the Italian table, and went glimmering across the floor. Across the hall was his destination, the broad, ballasted staircase which swept grandly up to the second floor. Toward this he tiptoed, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Almost to his goal he heard a muffled footfall, and shrank against the wall, with a cat-like agility. But, though the shadow fell steep and gloomy there, luck was against him. A middle-aged servant of solemn port, serene with the twofold dignity of double chin and bald head, paused at the table in his progress across the room, and swept the apartment with a judicial eye of one who knows that everything is as it should be, but will not trust even the silence of night. So that bland blue eye struck first on the faintly shining top-head of Anthony, ran down his overcoat, and lingered in gloomy dismay on the telltale streak of white where his trouser-leg should have been. What he thought, not even another Oedipus could have conjectured. The young master very obviously did not wish to be observed, and in such times Peters could be blinder than the bat at noonday, and more secret than the river-sticks. He turned away, unhurried, the fold of that double chin a little more pronounced over the severe correctness of his collar. A very sibilant whisper pursued him. He stopped again, still without haste, and turned not directly toward Anthony, but at a discreet angle, with his eyes fixed firmly upon the ceiling. CHAPTER IV. A SESSION OF CHAT. The whisper grew distinct in words. Peters, you old numbskull, come here. The approach of Peters was something like the sideways waddle of a very aged crab. He looked to the north, but his feet carried him to the east. That he was much moved was attested by the color which had mounted even to the gleaming expanse of that noble bald head. Yes, Master Anthony?  He said his teeth at the faux pas. Peters, look at me. Confound it. I haven't murdered any one. Are you busy? It required whole seconds for the eyes to wheel round upon Anthony. And they were immediately debased from the tell-tale white of that leg to the floor. No, sir. Then come up with me, and help me change. Quick! He turned and fled noiselessly up the great stairs, with Peters panting behind.  Whatever the old servant lacked in agility, he made up in certain knowledge. As he laid out a fresh tuxedo, Anthony changed with the speed of one pursued. The conversation was spesmotic to a degree. Where's Father, waiting in the library? Yes, reading, sir. Had a mix-up. Bully time, though. Damn this color. Peters, I wish you'd been there. Where's those trousers? Rub some of the crease out of them. They must look a little worn. He stood at last, completely dressed while Peters looked on with a shining eye, and a smile which any younger man would have suggested many things. How is it? Will I pass Father this way? I hope so, sir. But you don't think so. It's hard to deceive him. Con found it? Don't I know? Well, here's for a try. Soft foot it down the stairs. I'll go after you and bang the door. Then you say good evening in a loud voice, and I'll go into the library. How's that? Very good.  Now you should do very nicely. At the door go first, Peters, first, man, and hurry, but watch those big feet of yours. If you make a noise on the stairs, I'm done with you. The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not so safe the chuckling of Peters, for though he fought against the threatening explosion it rumbled like a roll of approaching thunder. In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door. Good evening, Mr. Anthony, said Peters loudly, too loudly. Evening, Peters. Where's Father? In the library, sir. Shall I take your coat? I'll carry it up to my room when I go. That's all. He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his father would not be facing him. But he found that John Woodbury was not even reading. He sat by the big fireplace, smoking a pipe which he now removed slowly from his teeth. Hello, Anthony. Good evening, sir. He rose to shake hands with his son. They might have been friends meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be formal. And as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat, he knew that the keen gray eyes studied him carefully from head to foot. Take this chair. Why, sir, wouldn't dream of disturbing you? Not a bit. I want you to try it. Just a trifle too narrow for me. John Woodbury rose and gestured his son to the chair he had been occupying. Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first and thinks afterward, seated himself as directed. Mighty comfortable, sir. The big man stood with his hands clasped behind him, peering down under shaggy iron-grey brows. I thought it would be. I designed it myself for you, and I had a pretty bad time getting it made. He stepped to one side. Hits you pretty well under the knees, doesn't it? Yes, it's deeper than most. A perfect fit, father, and mighty thoughtful of you. Hmm! rumbled John Woodbury and looked about like one who has forgotten something. What about a glass of scotch? Nothing. Thank you. I—in fact, I'm not very strong on this stuff. The rough brows rose a trifle and fell. No. But isn't it usual? Better have a go. Once more there was that slight touch of hesitancy, as if the son were not quite sure of the father, and wished to make every concession. Certainly, if it'll make you easier. There was an instant softening of the hard lines of the elder Woodbury's face, as though some favor of import had been done him. He touched a bell-cord, and lowered himself with a little grunt of relaxation into a chair. The chair was stoutly built, but it groaned a little under the weight of the mighty frame it received. He leaned back, and in his face was a light which came not altogether from the comfortable glow of the fire. And when the servant appeared, the big man ordered. Scotch and seltzer, and one glass with a pitcher of ice. Aren't you taking anything, sir? Ask, Anthony. Who, me? Yes, yes, of course. Why, let me see. Bring me a pitcher of beer, he added, as the servant disappeared. Never could get a taste for scotch, and rye doesn't seem to be a good form, eh, Anthony? Nonsense, frowned the son. Haven't you a right to be comfortable in your own house? Come, come, rumbled John Woodbury. A young fellow in your position can't have a bore for a father, eh? It was apparently an old argument between them, for Anthony stared gloomily at the fire, making no attempt to reply. And he glanced up in relief when the servant entered with the liquor. John Woodbury, however, returned to the charge as soon as they were left alone again, saying, as a matter of fact, I'm about to set you up in an establishment of your own in New York. He made a vastly inclusive gesture. Everything done up brown, old house, high-class interior decorator, to get you started with a splash. Are you tired of Long Island? I'm not going to the city, but you will. And my work? A gentleman of the class you'll be in can't callus his hands with work. I spent my life making money. You can spend your life throwing it away, like a gentleman. But—he reached out at this point, and smashed a burly fist into a palm hardly less hard. But I'll be damned, Anthony, if I'll let you stay here in Long Island, wasting your time riding the wildest horses you can get, and practicing with that infernal revolver. What the devil do you mean by it? I don't know, said the other, musing. Of course the days of revolvers are past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm. I love the kick of the barrel tossing up. I love the balance, and when I have a sick shooter in my hand, sir, I feel as if I had six lives. Odd, isn't it? He grew excited as he talked, his eyes gleaming with dancing points of fire. And I'll tell you this, sir. I'd rather be out in the country, where men still wear guns, where the sky isn't stained with filthy coal smoke, where there's an horizon wide enough to breathe in, where there's man-talk instead of this damned chatter over tea-cups. Stop! cried John Woodbury, and leaned forward.  The swaying forward of that mighty body, the outward thrust of the jaws, the ring of the voice was like the crashing of an axe when armored men meet in battle. The flicker in Anthony's eyes was the rapier which swerves from the axe and then leaps at the heart. For a critical second their glances crossed, and then the habit of obedience conquered. I suppose you know, sir. The father stared gloomily at the floor.  Perhaps there was nothing more typical of Anthony than that he never frowned, no matter how angry he might be. Now the cold light passed from his eyes. He rose and passed behind the chair of the elder man, dropping a hand upon those massive shoulders. Angry with myself, sir, that I should so nearly fall out with the finest father that walks the earth. The eyes of the gray man half closed, and a semblance of a smile touched those stiff, stern lips. One of the great workbroken hands went up and rested on the fingers of his son. And there'll be no more of this infernal western nonsense that you're always reverting to? No more of this coarsened gun and hell-bent away stuff? I suppose not, said Anthony, heavily.  The son obeyed, and finally said with difficulty, I didn't go to the Morrison supper. A sudden cloud of white rose from the bowl of Woodbury's pipe. But I thought that it was a big event. It was a fine thing for me to get a bid to. But I went to the Wild West show instead. Sir, I know it was childish, but I couldn't help it. I saw the posters. I thought of the horse-breaking, the guns, the swing and snap and dash of galloping men, the taunt of sweaty horses. And by God, sir, I couldn't stay away. Are you angry? It was more than anger. It was almost fear that widened the eye of Woodbury as he stared at his son. He said it last, calling himself, but I have your word. You've given up thought of this western life. Yes, answered Anthony with a touch of despair. I have given it up, I suppose. But, oh, sir, he stopped hopeless. And what else happened? Nothing to speak of. After you come home you don't usually change your clothes merely for the pleasure of sitting with me here. Nothing escapes you, does it, mothered Anthony? In your set, Anthony, that's what they'd call an improper question. I could ask you a number of questions, sir, for that matter. Well? That room over there, for instance, which you always keep locked. Am I never to have a look at it? He indicated the door which opened from the library. I hope not. You say that with a good deal of feeling. But there's one thing more that I have a right to hear about—my mother. Why do you never tell me of her? The big man stirred, and the chair groaned beneath him. Because it tortures me to speak of her, Anthony, said the husky voice. Tortures me, lad. I let the locked room go, Anthony said firmly. But my mother, she is different. Why, sir, I don't even know how she looked. Dad, it's my right. Is it? By God, you have a right to know exactly what I choose to tell you—no more. He rose, strawed across the room with ponderous steps, drew aside the curtains which covered the view of the garden below, and stared for a time into the night. When he turned, he found that Anthony had risen—a slender, erect figure. His voice was as quiet as his anger, but an inward quality made it as thrilling as the horse-boom of his father. On that point I stick. I must know something about her. Must? In spite of your anger. That locked room is yours. This house and everything in it is yours. But my mother, she was as much mine as yours, and I'll hear more about her. Who she was, what she looked like, where she lived. The sharply indrawn breath of John Woodbury cut him short. She died giving birth to you, Anthony. Dear God, she died for me. And in the silence which came over the two men it seemed as if another presence were in the room. John Woodbury stood at the fireplace with bowed head, and Anthony shaded his eyes and stared at the floor until he caught a glimpse of the other, and went gently to him. He said, I'm sorry, or then a lot of words could tell you. Will you sit down, sir, and let me tell you how I came to press home the question? If you want to have it that way. They resumed their chairs. CHAPTER V. OF TRAILIN by Max Brand This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. READING by Rowdy Delaney Idaho, USA CHAPTER V. ANTHONY IS LEFT IN THE DARK It will explain why I changed my clothes after I came home. You see, toward the end of the show, a lot of the cowboys rode in. The ringmaster was announcing that they could write anything that walked on four feet and wore a skin. When up jumped an oldish fellow in a box opposite mine, and shouted that he had a horse which none of them could mount. He offered five hundred dollars to the man who could back him, and made it good by going out of the building and coming back inside of five minutes with two men leading a great stallion, the ugliest piece of horse flesh I've ever seen. As they worked the brute down the arena, it caught sight of my white shirt, I suppose, for it made a dive at me, reared up, and smashed its four hooves against the barrier. By Jove, a regular man-eater, brought my heart into my mouth to see the big devil raging, and I began to yearn to get astride him and to, well, just to fight to see which of us could come out on top, you know. The big man moistened his lips. He was strangely excited. So you climbed into the arena and rode the horse. Exactly. I knew you'd understand. After I'd ridden the horse to a standstill, and climbed off, a good many people gathered around me. One of them was a big man, about your size. In fact, now that I look back at it, he was a good deal like you in more ways than one. Looked as if time had hardened him without making him brittle. He came to me and said, Excuse me, son, but you look sort of familiar to me.  What could I answer to a shadow fell across Anthony from the rising height of his father? As he looked up, he saw John Woodbury glance sharply, first toward the French windows, and then at the door of the secret room. Was that all, Anthony? Yes, about all. I want to be alone. The habit of automatic obedience made Anthony rise in spite of the questions which were forming at his lips. Good night, sir. Good night, my boy. At the door the harsh voice of his father overtook him. Before you leave the house again, see me, Anthony. Yes, sir. He closed the door softly, as one deepened thought, and stood for a time without moving. Because a man had asked him who his mother was, he was under orders not to leave the house. While he stood, he heard a faint click of a snapping lock within the library, and knew that John Woodbury had entered the secret room. In his own bedroom he undressed slowly, and afterward stood for a long time under the shower, rubbing himself down with the care of an athlete, thumbing the soreness of the wild ride out of his lean, sinewy muscles, for his was a maids strength built up in the gymnasium and used on the wrestling mat, the cinder-path, and the football field. Drying himself with a rough towel that whipped the pink into his skin, he looked down over his corded, slender limbs, remembered the thick arms and herculean torso of John Woodbury, and wondered. He sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in a bathrobe, and pondered.  John Woodbury, vast, blond, grey-eyed, had given him few of his physical traits, but then he had often heard that the son usually resembled the mother. She must have been dark, slender, a frail wife for such a giant, but perhaps she had a strength of spirit which made her his mate. As the picture drew out more clearly in the mind of Anthony he turned from the lighted room, threw open a window, and leaned out to breathe the calm, damp air of night. It was infinitely cool, infinitely fresh. To his left a row of young trees darted their slender tops at the sky like shadowy spearheads. The smell of wet leaves and the wet grass beneath rose up to him. To the right, for his room stood in a wing of the mansion. The house shouldered its way into the gloom, a solemn, grey shadow, netted in a black tracery of climbing vine. In all the stretch of the wall only two windows were lighted, and those yellow squares he knew belonged to his father. He had left the secret room, therefore. As he watched, a shadow brushed slowly across one of the drawn shades, swept the second, and returned it once in the opposite direction. Back and forth, back and forth, that shadow moved, and as his eye grew accustomed to watching, he caught quite clearly the curve of the shoulders and the forward droop of the head. It was not until then that the first alarm came to Anthony, for he knew that the footsteps of the big grey man were dogged by fear. He could no more conceive it than he could imagine noon and midnight in conjunction, and, feeling as guilty as if he had played the part of an eavesdropper, he turned away, snapped off the lights, and slipped into bed. The pleasant warmth of sleep would not come. In its place, the images of the day filed past him like the dance of figures on a motion picture screen, and always, like the repeated entrance of the hero, the other images grew small and dim. He saw again the burly stranger, wading through the crowd in the arena, shaking off the packed mob, as the prow of a stately ship shakes off the water to either side. At length he started out of bed and glanced through the window. The moving shadow still swept across the lighted shades of his father's room, so he donned bathrobe and slippers and went down the long hall. At the door he did not stop to knock, for he was too deeply concerned by this time to pay any heed to convention. He grasped the knob and threw the door wide open. What happened then was so sudden that he could not be sure afterward what he had seen. He was certain that the door opened on a lighted room, yet before he could step in the lights were snapped out. He was staring into a deep void of night, and a silence came about him like a whisper. Out of that silence he thought after a second that he caught the sound of hurried breathing, louder and louder, as though someone were creeping upon him. He glanced over his shoulder in a slight panic, but down the gray hall on either side there was nothing to be seen. Once more he looked back into the solemn room, opened his lips to speak, changed his mind, and closed the door again. Yet when he looked down again from his own room the lights shone once more on the shades of his father's windows. Past them brushed the shadow of the pacing man up and down, up and down. He turned his eyes away to the jagged tops of the young trees, to the glimpses of dark fields beyond them, and inhaled the scent of the wet green things. It seemed to Anthony, as if it were all hostile, as though the whole outdoors were besieging this house. He caught the sway of the pacing figure whose shadow moved in regular rhythm across the yellow shades. It entered his mind, clung there, and finally he began to pace in the same cadence up and down the room. With every step he felt that he was entering deeper into the danger which threatened John Woodbury. What danger! For answer to himself he stepped to the windows and pulled down the shades. At least he could be alone. 6 John Bard There is no cleanser of the mind like a morning bath. The same cold whipping spray which calls up the pink blood glowing through the marble of the skin drives the ache of sleep from the brain and washes away at once the recorded thoughts of yesterday. So in place of a crowded slate of wonders and doubts Anthony bore down to the breakfast table a willingness to take what the morning might bring and forget the night before. John Woodbury was already there, helping himself from the covered dishes, for the meal was served in the English style. There was the usual good morning, sir, good morning, Anthony, and then they took their places at the table. A cautious survey of the crag-like face of his father showed no traces of a sleepless night. But then what could a single night of unrest mean to that body of iron? He ventured, remembering the implied command to remain within the house until further orders. You ask me to speak to you, sir, before I left the house. I'd rather like to take a ride this morning. And the impenetrable voice replied, You've worn out your horses lately, better give them a day of rest. That was all, but it brought back to Anthony the thought of the shadow which had swept ceaselessly across the yellow shades of his father's room. He settled down to a day of reading. The misty rain of the night before had cleared the sky of its vapors, so he chose a nook in the library, where the bright spring sun shone full and the open fire supplied the warmth. At lunch his father did not appear, and Peters announced that the master was busy in his room with papers. The afternoon repeated the morning, but with less unrest on the part of Anthony. He was busy with La Samoire, and lost himself in the story of downfall, surrounding himself with each beautiful detail. Lunch was repeated at dinner, for still John Woodbury seemed too busy with his papers in his room. A fear came to Anthony that he was to be dodged indefinitely in this manner, deceived like a child, and kept in the house until the silent drama was played out. But when he sat in the library that evening, his father came in, and quietly drew up a chair by the fire. The stage was ideally set for a confidence, but none was forthcoming. The fire shook long sleepy shadows through the room. The glow of the two floor lamps picked out two circles of light, and still the elder man sat over his paper and would not speak. La Samoire ended, and to rid himself of the great tragedy, Anthony looked up and threw the windows toward the bright night, which lay over the gardens and terraces outside, for a full moon silvered all with a flood of light. It was a waiting time, and into it the old-fashioned Dutch clock in the corner sent its voice with a monotonous, softly clanging toll of seconds, until Anthony forgot the moonlight over the outside terraces to watch the gradual sway of the pendulum. A minute spent in this manner was equal to an hour of ordinary time. Fascinated by the sway of the pendulum, he became conscious of the passage of existence like a river broad and wide and shining which flowed into an eternity of chance and left him stationary on the banks. The voice which sounded at length was as dim and visionary as part of his waking dream. It was like one of those imagined calls from the world of action to him who stood there, watching reality run past and never stirring himself to take advantage of the thousands of opportunities for action. He would have discarded it as part of his dream had he not seen John Woodbury raise his head sharply, heard the paper fall with a dry crackling to the floor, and watched the square jaw of his father jut out in that familiar way which meant danger. Once more, and this time it was unmistakably clear, John Bard, come out to me. The big, gray man rose with widely staring eyes as if the name belonged to him, and strawed with a thumping step into the secret room. Hardly had the clang of the closing door died out when he reappeared, fumbling at his throat. Straight to Anthony he came and extended a key from which dangled a piece of thin silver chain. It was the key to the secret room. He took it in both hands, like a young knight receiving the pommel of a sword from him who had just given the accolade, and stared down at it until the creaking of the open French windows startled him to his feet. Wait, he called. I will go also. The big man at the open window turned. You will sit where you are, said his harsh voice, but if I don't return you have the key to the room. His burly shoulders disappeared down the steps toward the garden, and Anthony slipped back into the chair. Yet for the first time in his life he was dreaming of disobeying the command of John Woodbury. Woodbury. Yet the big man had risen automatically in answer to the name of Bard, John Bard. It struck on his consciousness, like two hammer-blows wrecking some fragile fabric. It jarred home, like the timed blow of a pugilist. Woodbury. There might be a thousand men capable of that name, but there could only be one John Bard. And that was he who had disappeared down the steps leading to the garden. Anthony swerved in his chair and fastened his eyes on the Dutch clock. He gave himself five minutes before he should move. The watched pot will never boil, and the minute hand of the big clock dragged forward with deadly pauses from one black mark to the next. Whispers rose in the room. Something fluttered the fallen newspapers as if a ghost hand grasped it but had not the strength to raise, and the window rattled with a sharp gust of wind. The last minute Anthony spent at the open French window with a backward eye on the clock. Then he raced down the steps as though in his turn he answered a call out of the night. The placid coolness of the open and the touch of the moist fresh air against his forehead mocked him as he reached the garden, and there were reassuring whispers from the trees as he passed, yet he went on with a long easy stride of a runner starting a long-distance race. First he skirted the row of poplars on the drive. Then he doubled back across the meadow to his right, and ran in a sharp angling course across an orchard of apple trees. Diverging from this direction he circled at a quicker pace toward the rear of the grounds and coursed like a wild deer over a stretch of terraced lawns. On one of these low crests he stopped short under the black shadow of an elm. In the smooth-shaven center of the hollow before him, the same ground over which he had run and played a thousand times in his childhood, he saw two men standing back to back, like fighters come to a last stand and facing a crowd of foes. They separated at once, striding out with a measured step, and it was not until they moved that he caught the glint of metal at the side of one of the men and knew that one was the man who had answered to the name John Bard, and the other was the gray man who had spoken to him at the garden the night before. He knew it not so much by the testimony of his eyes at that dim distance as by a queer inner feeling that this must be so. There was also a sense of familiarity about the whole thing, as if he were looking at something which he had seen rehearsed a thousand times. As if they reached the end of an agreed course, the two world at the same instant, the metal in their hands glinted in an upward semicircle, and the two guns barked hoarsely across the lawns. One of them stood with the guns still poised, the other leaned gradually forward and toppled at full length on the grass. The victor strought out toward the fallen, but hearing the wild yell of Anthony he stopped, turned his head, and then fled into the grove of trees which topped the next rise of ground. After him, running as he had never before raced, Anthony went. His hand, as he sprinted, already tensed for the coming battle, two hundred yards at most, and he would reach the lumbering figure which had plunged into the night of the trees. But a call reached him as sharp as the crack of the guns a moment before. Anthony! His head twitched to one side, and he saw John Bard rising to his elbow. His racing stride shortened choppily. Anthony! He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up the chase, and then sped back to the fallen man. At his coming, John Bard collapsed on the grass, and when Anthony knelt beside him a voice in rough dialect began, as if an enforced culture were brushed away and forgotten in the crisis. Anthony! There ain't no use in following him. Where did the bullet strike you? Quick! A place where it ain't no use to look. I know. Let me follow him. It's not too late. The dying man struggled to one elbow. Don't follow, lad, if you love me. Who is he? Give me his name, and—he acted in the name of God. You have no right to hunt him down. Then the law will do that. Not the law. For God's sake, swear. I'll swear anything. But now, lie quiet. Let me—don't try. This couldn't end no other way for John Bard. Is that your real name? Yes. Now listen, Anthony, for my time's short. He closed his eyes as if fighting silently for strength. Then, when I was a lad like you, Anthony—that was all. The massive body relaxed. The head fell back into the dewy grass. Anthony pressed his head against the breast of John Bard, and it seemed to him that there was still a faint pulse. With his pocketknife he ripped away the coat from the great chest, and then tore open the shirt. On the expanse of the hairy chest there was one spot from which the purple blood welled. A deadly place for a wound, and yet the bleeding showed that there must still be life. He had no chance to bind the wound, for John Bard opened his eyes again, and said, as if in his dream he had still continued his tale to Anthony. So that's all the story, lad. Do you forgive me? For what, sir? In God's name, for what? Damn nation! Tell me, do you forgive John Bard? He did not hear the answer, for he murmured, even Joan would forgive, and died. CHAPTER VII. BLUEBEARD'S ROOM As Anthony Woodbury he knelt beside the dying. As Anthony Bard he rose with the dead man in his arms, a mighty burden even for his supple strength, yet he went staggering up the slope across the level terrace and back to the house. There it was Peters who answered his call. Peters with the flabby face grown gray, but still the perfect servant who asked no questions. Together they bore the weight up the stairs and placed it on John Bard's bed. While Anthony kept his steady vigil by the dead man, it was Peters again who summoned the police and the useless doctor. To the old uniform sergeant, Anthony told a simple lie. His father had gone for a walk through the grounds because the night was fine, and Anthony was to join him later, but when he arrived he found a dying man who could not even explain the manner of his death. Nothing surprises me about a rich man's death, said the sergeant. Not in these days of anarchy.  I want to make out my report. So Anthony led the grizzled fellow to the library and supplied him with what he wished. The sergeant, saying good-bye, shook hands with a lingering grip. I knew John Woodbury, he said, just by sight. But I'm here to tell the world that you've lost a father who was just about all man. So long, I'll be seeing you again. Left alone, Anthony Bard went to the secret room. The key fitted smoothly into the lock.  Otherwise Anthony saw three things, two pictures on the wall and a little box in the corner. He went about his work very calmly, for here, he knew, was the only light upon the past of John Bard, the past which had lain passive so long and overwhelmed him on this night. First he took up the box as being by far the most promising of the three to give him what he wished to know, the name of the slayer, the place where he could be found, and the cause of the slaying.  But the oil can and the black smears on the silk made him look closer, closer until the meaning struck him in a flare, as the glow of a lighted match suddenly allumes, even if faintly, an entire room. In that box the revolver had lain, and here, every day through all the year, John Bard had retired to clean and oil his gun, oil and reclean it, keeping it ready for the crisis. That was why he went to the secret room as soon as he heard the call from the garden, and carrying that gun with him he had walked out, prepared. The time had come for which he had waited a quarter of a century, knowing all that time that the day must arrive. It was easy to understand now many an act of the big grim man, but still there was no light upon the slayer.  He jerked his head up, at last, and flashed a glance over his shoulder. Indeed there was mockery in the smile with which she stared down at him from her frame. Down to him, past him, as if she scorned in him all men forever. It was not that which made Anthony close his eyes. He was trying with all his might to conjure up his own image vividly. He looked again, comparing his picture with this portrait on the wall, and then he knew why the gray man at the garden had said, Son, who's your mother? For this was she into whose eyes he now stared. She had the same deep, dark eyes, the same black hair, the same rather aquiline, thin face, which her woman's eyes and lovely mouth made beautiful, but otherwise the same. He was simply a copy of that head, hewn with a rough chisel, a sculptor's clay model rather than a smoothly finished reproduction. Ah! and the fine spirit of her, the buoyant, proud, scornful spirit. He stretched out his arms to her, drew closer, smiling as if she could meet and welcome his caress, and then remembered that this was a thing of canvas and paint, a bright shadow, no more. To the second picture he turned with a deeper hope, but his heart fell at once, for all he saw was an enlarged photograph, two mountains, snow-topped in the distance, and in the foreground, first a mighty pine, with the branches lopped smoothly from one side as though some tremendous axe had trimmed it. Behind this a ranch house, and further back the smooth waters of a lake. He turned sadly away and reached the door when something made him turn back and stand once more before the photograph. It was quite the same, but it took on a different significance as he linked it with the two other objects in the room, the picture of his mother and the revolver box. He found himself searching among the forest for the figures of two great grey men, equal in bulk, such titans as that wild country needed. West it must be, but where, north or south, west, and from the west surely that grey man at the garden had come, and from the west John Bard himself. Those two mountains spearing the sky with their sharp horns, they would be the pole by which he steered his course. A strong purpose is to man what an engine is to a ship. Suppose a hull lies in the water, staunchly built, graceful in lines of strength and speed, nosing at the wharf or tugging back on the mooring line. It may be a fine piece of building, but it cannot be much admired. But place an engine in the hull and add to those lines the pur of a motor. There is a sight which brings a smile to the lips and a light to the eyes. Anthony had been like an un-engined hulk moored in gentle waters with never a hope of a voyage to rough seas. Now that his purpose had come to him, he was calmly eager, almost gay in the prospect of the battle. On the highest hill of Anson Place, in a tomb overlooking the waters of the sound, they lowered the body of John Bard. Afterward Anthony Bard went back to the secret room of his father. The old name of Anthony Woodbury he had abandoned. In fact, he felt almost like dating a new existence from the moment when he had heard the voice calling out of the garden, John Bard come out to me. If life was a thread, that voice was the shears which snapped the trend of his life and gave him a new beginning. As Anthony Bard he opened once more the door of the chamber. He had replaced the revolver of John Bard in the box with the oiled silk. Now he took it out again and shoved it into his back-trouser pocket and then stood a long moment under the picture of the woman he knew was his mother. As he stared he felt himself receding to youth, to boyhood, to childhood days, finally to a helpless infant which that woman perhaps had held and loved. In those dark-brooding eyes he strove to read the mystery of his existence, but they remained as unriddled as the free stars of heaven. He repeated to himself his new name, his real name, Anthony Bard. It seemed to make him a stranger in his own eyes. Woodbury had been a name of culture. It suggested the air of long descent. Bard was terse, short, brutally abrupt, alive with the possibilities of action. Those possibilities he would never learn from the dead lips of his father. He sought them from his mother, but only the painted mouth and the painted smile answered him. He turned again to the picture of the house with the snow-topped mountains in the distance. There surely was the solution, somewhere in the infinite reaches of the West. Finally he cut the picture from its frame and rolled it up. He felt that in doing so he would carry with him an identification tag, a clue to himself. With that clue in his travelling bag he started for the city, bought his ticket, and boarded a train for the West. CHAPTER VIII. The motion of the train during those first two days gave Anthony Bard a strange feeling that he was travelling from the present into the past. He heard nothing about him. He saw nothing of the territory which world past the window. They were already far West before a man boarded the train and carried to Bard the whole atmosphere of the mountain desert. He got on the train at a Nebraska station and Anthony set up to watch, for a man of importance does not need size in order to have a mind. Napoleon struck awe through the most gallant of his hero-martials, and even the porter treated this little brown man with a respect that was ludicrous at first glimpse. He was so ugly that one smiled on glancing at him. His face, built on the plane of a wedge, was extremely narrow in front, with a long, high-bridged nose, planting forehead, thin-lipped mouth, and a chin that jutted out to a point, but going back all the lines flared out like a reversed vista. A ridge of muscle crested each side of the broad jaws, and the ears flaunted out behind so that they seemed to have been built for travelling through the wind. The same wind, perhaps, had blown the hair away from the upper part of his forehead, leaving him quite bald halfway back on his head, where a veritable forest of hair began, and continued, growing thicker and longer, until it brushed the collar of his coat behind. When he entered the car he stood eyeing his seat for a moment, like a dog choosing the softest place on the floor before it lies down.  Three hours that state continued. Then he got up, and Anthony followed him to the diner. They sat at the same table. The journey, Anthony said, is pretty tiresome through monotonous scenery like this. The little keen eyes surveyed him a moment before the man spoke. There was buffalo on them planes once.  He could not have been more abashed than was Anthony, who glanced through the window at the dreary prospect, looked back again, and found that the sharp eyes once more looked straight ahead without the slightest light of triumph in his coup. Silence, apparently, did not in the least abash this man. No a good deal about buffaloes? Yes. It was not the insulting curtness of one who wishes to be left in peace, but simply a statement of bald fact. Really? queried Anthony. I didn't think you were as old as that. It appeared that this remark was worthy of no answer whatever. The little man turned his attention to his order of ham and eggs. Cut off the first egg, maneuvered it carefully into position on his knife, and raised it toward a mouth that stretched to astonishing proportions. But at the critical moment the egg slipped and flopped back onto the plate. Missed, said Anthony. He couldn't help it. The ejaculation popped out on its own accord. The other regarded him with grave displeasure.  Excuse me. I've no doubt you're extremely accurate. I never miss, said the other, and proved it by disposing of the egg at the next imposing mouthful. I should like you to know my name is Anthony Bard. I'm Marty Wilkes. How are you? They shook hands. Westerner, Mr. Wilkes? This is my furthest east. Have a pleasant time? A gesture indicated the barren, brown waste of the prairie. Too much civilization. Really? Even the cattle got no fight in them, he added. That sounds like I'm a fighter. I ain't. Till you're stirred up, Mr. Wilkes? Heat me up, and I'll burn soil of wood. You're pretty familiar with the western country? I get a round. Perhaps you'd recognize this. He took a scroll from his breast pocket and unrolled the photograph of the forest and the ranch house with the two mountains in the distance. Wilkes considered it unperturbed. Then were the little brothers. Ah! Then all I have to do is travel to the foot of the little brothers? No, about sixty miles from them. Impossible! Why, the mountains almost overhang that house. Wilkes handed back the picture and resumed his eating without reply. It was not a sullen resentment. It was hunger and a lack of curiosity. He was not heated up. Anyone, said Anthony, to lure the other on, could see that. Sure. Anyone with bad eyes. But how could you tell at sixty miles? I've been there. Well, at least the big tree there, and the ranch house will not be very hard to find. But I suppose I'll have to travel in a circle around the little brothers, keeping a sixty-mile radius. If you want to waste a pile of time—yes—I suppose you could lead me right to the spot? I could. How? That's about fifty-five miles straight northeast of the little brothers. How the devil can you tell that, man? That ain't hard. There's a pretty strong north wind that blows in them parts. It's cold and it's strong.  Mostly it's just plain sand and rock. The trees live because they got protection from that north wind. Nature puts moss on them on the north side to shelter them from that same wind. Look at that picture close. You see that rough place on the side of that tree? Just a shadow, like the whiskers of a man, ain't shaved for a week. That's the moss. Now, if that's north, the rest is easy. That place is northeast of the little brothers. But I jove. How did you get such eyes? Used them. The reason I'd like to find the house is because—reasons ain't none too popular with me. Well, you're pretty sure that your suggestion will take me to the spot? I'm sure a nothing set my gun when the weather's hot. Reasonably sure, however. The pine trees in the house. If I don't find one, I'll find the other. The house will be in ruins, probably. Why? That picture was taken a long time ago. Do you read the mind of a picture, Mr. Wilkes? No. The tree, however, will be there. No. That's chopped down. That's going a bit too far. Do you mean to say that you know that this particular tree is down? That's first growth. All that country's been cut over. Do you think they'd pass up a tree the size of that? It's going to be hard, Anthony said with a frown, for me to get used to the West. Maybe not. I can ride, and shoot pretty well, but I don't know the people. I haven't worn their clothes, and I can't talk their lingo. The country's mostly rocks when it ain't ground. The people is pretty generally men and women. The clothes they wear is cotton and wool. The lingo they talk is English. It was like a paragraph out of some book of ultimate knowledge. He was not entirely contented with his statement, however, for he now qualified it as follows. Maybe some of them don't talk good book English.  In fact, there ain't awful many like me. But they can tell you how much you owe them, and they'll understand you when you say you're hungry. What's your business? Excuse me, I don't generally ask questions. That's all right. You've probably caught the habit from me. I'm simply going out to look about for excitement. Feller generally finds what he's looking for. Maybe you won't be disappointed. I've known places on the range where excitement growed like fruit on a tree. It was like that they're men in the Bible. You didn't have to work none for it.  He added with a sigh. But them times ain't no more. That's hard on me, eh? Don't start complaining till you miss your feed. Things are getting pretty crowded. But there's ways of getting elbow room, even at a bar. And you really think there's nothing which distinguishes the Westerner from the Easterner? Just the Western feeling, partner. Get that, and you'll be at home. If you were a little further east and said that, people might be inclined to smile a bit. Partner, if they did, they wouldn't finish their smile. But I heard a Feller say once that the funny thing about men east and west of the Rockies was that they was all—he paused as if trying to remember. Well, Americans, Mr. Bard. CHAPTER IX THIS PLACE FOR REST As the white heat of midday passed and the shadows lengthened more and more rapidly to the east, the sheep moved out from the shade and from the tangle of the brush to feed in the open, and the dogs, which had laid one on either side of the man, rose and trotted out to recommence their vigil. But the shepherd did not change his position where he sat cross-legged under the tree. Alternately he stroked the drooping mustache to the right and then the left, with a little twist each time, which turned the hair to a sharp point in its furthest downward reach near his chin. To the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, while his eyes, sad with the perpetual mist, looked over the lake and far away to the white tops of the little brothers, now growing blue with shadow. Finally, with a brown forefinger, he lifted the brush of mustache on his upper lip, leaned a little, and spat. After that he leaned back with a sigh of content. The brown juice had struck fairly and squarely on the center of the little stone, which for the past two hours he had been endeavouring vainly to hit. The wind had been against him. All was well. The spindling tops of the second growth forest pointed against the pale blue of a stainless sky, and through that clear air the bladding of the most distant sheep sounded close, mingled with the light clanger of the bells. But the perfect peace was broken rudely now by the form of a horseman looming black and large against the eastern sky. He trotted his horse down the slope, scattered a group of noisy sheep from side to side before him, and drew rain before the shepherd. Evening, stranger, own this land? No, rent it. Could I camp here? The shepherd lifted his mustache again and spat. When he spoke his eyes held steadily, and sadly on the little stone, which he had missed again. Can't think of nobody who'd stop you? That's your house over there? You rent that? He pointed to a broken-backed ruin which stood on the point of land that jutted out into the waters of the lake, a crumbling structure slowly blackening with time. Nope. A shadow of a frown crossed the face of the stranger, and was gone again more quickly than a cloud shadow brushed over the window on a windy city in March. Well, he said, this place looks pretty good to me. Ever fish those streams? Don't eat fish. I'll wager your missin' some first-class trout, though. By Jove, I'd like to cast a couple times over some of the pools I've passed in the last hour. By the way, who owns that house over there? Same fellow that owns the land. That's so. What's his name? The other lifted his shaggy eyebrows and stared at the stranger. Ain't been long around here, eh? No? William Drew owns that house. William Drew repeated the writer, as though imprinting the word in his memory. Is he home? Maybe. I'll write over and ask him if he can put me up. Wait a minute. He may be home, but he lives on the other side of the range. Very far from here? A piece. How will I know him when I see him? Big feller, gray, broad shoulders. Ah, the other murmured, and smiled as though the picture pleased him. I'll hunt him up, and ask him if I can camp out in this house of his for a while. Well, that's your party. Don't you think he'd let me? Maybe, but the house ain't lucky. That's so. Sure. There's a grave in front of it. A grave? Who's? Don't know. Well, it doesn't worry me. I'll drop over the hill and see Drew. Maybe you'd better wait. You'll be passing him on the road like it's not. How's that? He comes over here on Tuesdays once a month. Tomorrow he's about due. Good. In the meantime I can camp over there by that stream, eh? Don't know if nobody would stop you. By the way, what brings Drew over here every month? Never ask him. I was brung up not to ask questions. The stranger accepted this subtle rebuke with such an open, infectious laugh that the shepherd smiled in the very act of spitting at the stone, with the result that he missed it by whole inches. I'll answer some of the questions you haven't asked then. My name is Anthony Bard, and I'm out here seeing the mountains, and having a bully time in general with my rod and gun. The sad eyes regarded him without interest, but Bard swung from his horse and advanced with outstretched hand. I may be here a few days, and we might as well get acquainted, eh? I'll promise to lay off the questions. I'm Logan. Glad to know you, Mr. Logan. Same to you. Don't happen to have no fine cut about you. No. Sorry. So am I. Ran out, and now all I got is plug. Kind of hard on the teeth, and full of molasses. I've got some pipe tobacco, though, which might do. He produced a pouch, which Logan opened, taking from it a generous pinch. Looks kind of like fine cut. Smells kind of like the real thing. Here he removed the quid from his mouth, and introduced a great pinch of tobacco. And I'll be damned if it don't taste a pile the same. The misty eyes centered upon Bard, and a light grew up in them. Maybe you'd put a price on this tobacco, stranger? It's yours, said Bard, to help forget all the questions I've asked. The shepherd acted at once, lest the other might change his mind, dumping the contents of the pouch into the breast pocket of his shirt. Afterward his gaze sought the dim summits of the little brothers, and a sad, great resolution grew up and hardened the lines of his sallow face. You can camp with me, if you want, partner. A cough, hastily summoned, covered Bard's smile. Thanks awfully, but I'm used to camping alone, and I rather like it that way. Which I'd say the same goes here, responded the shepherd with infinite relief. I ain't got much use for company, away from a bar. But I could show you a pretty neat spot for a camp over there by the river. Thanks, but I'll explore by myself. He swung again into the saddle and trotted, whistling down the slope toward the creek which Logan had pointed out. But once, fairly out of sight, in the second-growth forest, he veered sharply to the right, touched his tough cattle pony with his spurs, and headed at a racing pace straight for the old ruined house. Even from a distance the house appeared unmistakably done for, but not until he came close at hand could Bard appreciate the full extent of the ruin. Every individual board appeared to be rotting and crumbling toward the ground, awaiting the shake of one fierce gust of wind to disappear in a cloud of moldy dust. He left his horse with the reins hanging over its head behind the house and entered by the back door. One step past the threshold brought him misadventure. His foot drove straight through the rotten flooring, and his leg disappeared up to the knee. After that he proceeded more cautiously, following the lines of beams on which the boards were nailed, but even these shook and groaned under his weight. A whimsical fancy made him think of the fabled boat of Chiron, which will float a thousand bodyless spirits over the sticks, but which sinks to the waterline with the weight of a single human being. So he passed forward, like one in a fabric of spider webs almost fearing to breathe lest the whole house should puff away to shreds before him. Half the boards fallen from the ceiling revealed the bare rafters above. Below there were ragged holes in the flooring. In one place a limb, torn by lightning or wind from its overhanging tree, had crashed through a corner of the roof and dropped straight through to the ground. At last he reached a habitable room in the front of the house. It was a shell built inside the old wreck with four stout corner posts supporting cross beams which in turn held up the moldering roof. In the center was a rude table, and on either side a bunk built against the wall. Perhaps this was where Drew lived on the occasion of his visits to the old ranch house. Out of the gloom of the place, Bard stepped with a shrug of the shoulders, like one who shakes off the spell of a nightmare. He strawed through the doorway and took the slant, warm sun of the afternoon full in his face. He found himself in front of the only spot on the entire premises which showed the slightest care. The mound of a grave under the shelter of two trees whose branches were interwoven overhead in some sort of impromptu roof. From the surface of the mound all weeds and grasses had been carefully cleared away, and around the edge run a path covered with gravel and sand. It was a well-beaten path, with the marks of heels still comparatively fresh upon it. The headstone itself bore not a visage of moss, but time had cracked it diagonally, and the chiseled letters were weathered away. He studied it with painful care, pouring intently over each faint impression. He who cared for the grave had apparently been troubled only to keep the stone clean from dirt. The lettering he must have known by heart. At length Bard made out the inscription. Here lies Joan, wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest. CHAPTER X. A BIT OF STALKING. It seemed as if the peaceful afternoons of Logan were ended forever. For the next day the scene of interruption was repeated under almost identical circumstances, save that the tree under which the shepherd sat was a little larger. Larger also was the man who rode over the brow of the hill to the east. The most durable cattle-pony would have staggered under the bulk of that rider, and therefore he wrote a great patient-eyed bay, with shoulders worthy of shoving against a work-collar. But the neck tapered down small behind a short head, and the legs, for all their breadth at shoulder and hip, slipped away to small hooves and ankles which sloped sharply to the rear, the sure sign of a fine saddle-horse. Yet the strong horse was winded by the burden he bore, a mighty figure, deep-chested, ample-shouldered, an ideal cavalier for the days when youths rode out an armor-plate to seek adventures, and when men of fifty still lifted the lance to run a friendly course or two in the lists. At the side of him Logan so far besturred himself to uncoil his long legs, rise, and stand with one shoulder propped against the tree. "'Evening, Mr. Drew,' he called. "'Hello, Logan. How's everything with you?' He would have ridden on, but at Logan's reply he checked his horse to a slow walk. "'Busy. Lots of company lately, Mr. Drew?' "'Company?' "'Yes. There's a young fellow come along who says he wants to see you. He's over there by the creek now, fishing, I think. I told him I'd holler if I'd seen you, but I guess you wouldn't mind riding over that way yourself. Drew brought his horse to a halt. "'What does he want of me?' "'Don't know. Something about wanting to hunt and fish on your streams here. Why didn't you tell him he was welcome to do what he liked? Must be an easterner, Logan.' Just a bunk in the old house, too. Seems sort of interested in it. That's so. What sort of fellow is he?' "'All right. A bit talky.  His hand automatically rose and touched his breast pocket. "'I'll go over to him,' said Drew, and swung his horse to the left, but only to come again to a halt. He called over his shoulder. "'What sort of a looking fellow?' "'Pretty keen, dark,' answered Logan, slipping down into his original position. "'Then face, black eyes.' "'Ah, yes,' murmured Drew, and started at a trot for the creek. Once more he imitated the actions of Bard the day before. However, for no sooner had the tree screened him thoroughly from the eyes of Logan than he abandoned his direct course for the creek. He swung from the saddle with an ease surprising in a man of such age and bulk, and tossed the reins over the head of the horse. Then he commenced, a cautious stalking through the woods, silent as an Indian, stealthy of foot, with eyes that glanced sharply in all directions. Once a twig snapped underfoot, and after that he remained motionless through a long moment, shrinking against the trunk of a tree and scanning the forest anxiously in all directions. At length he ventured out again, groan doubly cautious. In this manner he worked his way up the course of the stream, always keeping the waters just within sight but never passing out on the banks, where the walking would have been tenfold easier. So he came in sight of a figure far off through the trees. If he had been cautious before, he became now as still as night. Dropping to his hands and knees, or crouching almost as prone, he moved from the shadow of one tree to the next, now and then venturing a glance to make sure that he was pursuing the right course, until he maneuvered to a point of vantage which commanded a clear view of Bard. The latter was fishing with his back to Drew. Again and again he cast the fly out under an overhanging limb which shadowed a deep pool. The big gray man set his teeth and waited with the patience of a stalking beast of prey, or a cat which will sit half the day waiting for the mouse to show above the opening of its hole. Finally there was a bite at length. The pole bent almost double and the reel played back and forth rapidly as the fisher wore down his victim. Finally he came close to the edge of the stream, dipped his net into the water and jerked it up at once, bearing a twisting, shining trout and trapped in the meshes. Swinging about as he did so, Drew caught his first full glimpse of Anthony's face and knew him for the man who had ridden the wild horse at Madison Square Garden those weeks before. Perhaps it was astonishment that moved the big man. Surely it could not have been fear, yet he knelt there behind the sheltering tree, gray-faced, wide, and blank of eye, as a man might look who dreamed and awoke to see his vision standing before him in full sunlit life. What his expression became then could not be said, for he buried his face in his hands and his great body shook with a tremor. If this was not fear it was something very like. And very like a man in fear, he stole back among the trees as cautiously as he had made his approach. Resuming his horse, he rode straight for Logan. "'Couldn't find your young friend,' he said, along the creek. "'Why?' said Logan. "'I can reach him with a hauler from here, I think.' "'Never mind. Just tell him he's welcome to do what he pleases on the place, and he can bunk down at the house if he wants to. I'd like to know his name, though.' "'That's easy, Anthony Bard.' "'Ah,' said Drew slowly, Anthony Bard. "'That's it,' nodded Logan, and fixed a curious eye upon the big gray rider. As if to escape from that inquiring scrutiny, Drew wheeled his horse and spurred a sharp gallop up the hill, leaving Logan frowning behind him. "'No stay overnight,' muttered the shepherd. "'No fooling about that damn old shack of a house? What's wrong with Drew?' He answered himself, for all shepherds are forced by the bitter loneliness of their work to talk to themselves. "'That old boy's worried. Damned if he isn't. I'll keep an eye on this Bard-feller.' And he loosened the revolver in its holster. He might have been even more concerned had he seen the redoubled speed with which Drew galloped as soon as the hilltop was between him and Logan. Straight on he pushed his horse, not exactly like one who fled, but rather more like one too busy with consuming thoughts to pay the slightest heed to the welfare of his mount. It was a spent horse on which he trotted late that night up to the big yawning door of his barn. "'Where's Nash?' he asked, of the man who took his horse. "'Playing a game with the boys in the bunk-house, sir.' So passed the bunk-house Drew went on his way to his dwelling, knocked and threw open the door. Inside a dozen men seated at or standing around a table looked up. "'Nash!' "'Here!' "'In the jump, Nash! I'm in a hurry.' There rose a man of a build much prized in pugilistic circles. In those same circles he would have been described as a fellow with a fighting face and a heavy weight above the hips and a light weight below.  He rose now in the midst of a general groan of dismay and scooped up a considerable stack of gold as well as several bright piles of silver. He was undoubtedly taking the glory of the game with him. "'Is this Square?' growled one of the men, clenching a fist on the edge of the table. The sardonic smile hardened on the lips of Nash as he answered. "'Before you've been here much longer, Pete. You'll find out that about everything I do is Square. Sorry to leave you boys, before you're broke, but orders is orders.' "'But one more hand first,' pleaded Pete. "'You poor fool, snarled Nash. Do you think I'd take a chance on keeping him waiting?' The last of his winnings passed with a melodious jingle into his pockets, and he went hurriedly out of the bunkhouse and up to the main building. There he found Drew in the room which the rancher used as an office and stood at the door, hat in hand. "'Come in. Sit down,' said him. "'Been taken the money away from the boys again, Steve? I thought I talked with you about that a month ago.' "'It's this way, Mr. Drew,' explained Nash. "'With me, staying away from the cards is like a horse staying off his feet. Besides, I'd done the square thing by the lot of those short horns. What's that?' I showed him my hand. "'Told them you were a professional gambler?' "'Sure. I explained they didn't have no chance against me. And of course that made them throw every cent they had against you. Maybe. It can't go on, Nash. Look here, Mr. Drew. I told him that I wasn't a gambler, but just a gold-digger. The big man could not restrain his smile, though it came like a shadow of mirth rather than the sunlight. After all, they might as well lose to you as to someone else.' "'Sure,' grinned Nash. "'It keeps it in the family, eh?' But one of these days, Steve, crooked cards will be the end of you.' "'I'm still pretty fast on the draw,' Steve said, sullenly. "'All right. That's your business. Now I want you to listen to some of mine.' "'Real work? Your own line?' "'That,' said Nash, with a smile of infinite meaning. Just like the dinner-bell, to me. Let her go, sir.' End of Chapter 10


The incremental normalization of police murder bots probably needs more attention. One of the most under-discussed topics in the world right now is how governments have been increasingly pacing the public toward accepting the use of police robots that kill people. The city of San Francisco has voted to legalize the use of killbots in specific emergency situations like active shooters and suicide bombers, with high-ranking officials making the call as to whether their use is warranted. Police in San Francisco will be allowed to deploy potentially lethal remote-controlled robots in emergency situations, the Guardian reports. The controversial policy was approved after weeks of scrutiny and a heated debate among the city's board of supervisors during their meeting on Tuesday. The proposed policy does not lay out specifics for how the weapons can and cannot be equipped, leaving open the option to arm them, the Guardian reports, adding that the current plan is to equip them with explosive charges rather than firearms. We are seeing more and more expansions in the normalization of militarized police robots to the point where there are now significant escalations from year to year. Last year I wrote a piece on the way police departments in the US and Canada have been normalizing the use of quadrupedal robots, disingenuously labeled dogs for PR purposes, for tasks like surveilling hostage situations and enforcing COVID restrictions. A few months later I had to write another one on this trend because arms manufacturers had begun designing firearms specifically to be mounted on those same quadruped bots. The year before, during the 2020 George Floyd protests, it was revealed that police had been using drones to surveil demonstrations in US cities, including the predator drone normally used overseas by the US military. Now the Oakland Police Department is pushing for the use of robots armed with shotguns. Police have already used a robot armed with a bomb to kill a suspect in Texas. Every year we're seeing more steps toward the normalized ubiquitousness of unmanned weapons systems for domestic use in Western civilization. It makes sense that the US, whose police force is more heavily funded than almost any other nation's military force, is leading this charge. As John and Nisha Whitehead explained for the Rutherford Institute, this ongoing expansion of police robot militarization tracks alongside the steadily increasing militarization of police forces in the US more generally. SWAT teams first appeared in California in the 1960s. By 1980 the US was seeing 3,000 SWAT team style raids per year. And by 2014 that number had soared to 80,000. It's probably a lot higher now. These robots, often acquired by local police departments through federal grants and military surplus programs, signal a tipping point in the final shift from a Mayberry style of community policing to a technologically driven version of law enforcement dominated by artificial intelligence, surveillance and militarization, right Whitehead and Whitehead, adding, it's only a matter of time before these killer robots intended for use as a last resort become as common as SWAT teams. Like all escalations in police powers and police militarization, the increasingly widespread use of police killbots will be justified in the name of saving lives and protecting law enforcement officers, but will certainly see a rise in abuses of that new power. More importantly, at least in the long term, once armed robots are being used to police civilian populations, the powerful will have made the possibility of a people's revolution against them far more remote. Flesh and blood armed goons will hesitate to fire upon their countrymen in a domestic uprising. They can be persuaded to side with the people and oust the sitting government. They have beating hearts and aren't covered in armor. We are still a ways off from AI guided, weaponized robots enforcing the rule of law on our streets, but that does appear to be where we're headed, and once we're there, it's entirely possible that the door of revolution will have been bolted shut for good. If that's the case, then it's no exaggeration to say that humanity is in a race between a revolution against the status quo power structures, which are oppressing and exploiting us while driving us toward disaster, and be the ubiquitousness of armed police units. Our rulers keep incrementally pacing us into accepting this in the same way they pace us into accepting internet censorship, whistleblower persecution, and the war on journalism. So it's probably important that we do not accept it and keep shining a bright public spotlight on this freakish trend to keep it from becoming normalized.


Continuously rising gas prices have people talking about domestic supply. Did you know that Wyoming produces 10% of the nation's natural gas? Six billion cubic feet a day. And to give you some perspective on that, six billion cubic feet a day would fill Pathfinder Reservoir in about seven days. But have you ever wondered how gas production and distribution really works? Well, once gas is found and produced, the pathway that Wyoming's gas takes is almost always a pipeline. There are many pipelines in the state and since each producing well is connected to a consumer somewhere, the pipelines start out small and then they are joined together. The small lines lead to industrial installations where the gas is conditioned and compressed into smaller volumes. Compression uses huge engines to pressurize the gas so that more can fit into the pipelines. Pipelines from each well come together to form larger pipelines until there's one main pipeline that transports that gas to distribution points far away. In distribution, the pipelines start to get smaller and smaller until finally the gas distribution pipe is as small as one coming into your home. Fuel in your fairness. For Exploring the Natural Resources of Wyoming, I'm Eric Peterson from the Wyoming Cooperative Extension Service.