Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 37: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DARK O’ THE MOON. 827 ‘“Where are you going to stay?” the princess turned in her seat and inquired of Lynnie. ‘“TIsn’t there a hotel?”’ “It’s not finished yet,” was the reply. ‘You'll have to get a tent and eat at restaurants.” “ [ll cook fer dish chile,’ Aunt Jury an- nounced. The princess spoke to Bill Gerrish out of the side of her mouth. ‘We'll have to look after these infants. They might as well be the babes in the wood with that old crow to cover ’em up with leaves.” Bill nodded sagely. ‘You sit here,’ the princess directed when they had stopped in front of the post office, “and J’ll step into this real estate place and see about getting you a lodgin’ place.”’ She came back and stood by the side of the stage. ‘“‘ The Requas had to take their baby out for the summer, they tell me. They left to-day and their shack on Magnolia Avenue is for rent, furnished. You’ll have to pay for a month—” Lynnie turned to Aunt Jury: “What do you think?” “ Hit ‘Il take a month er mo’ fer me to get my ol’ bones onlimbered,” Aunt Jury rejoined. ‘‘ Anyway, we never is see a gol’ mine town.” The girl followed the bulky princess into the tent and emerged with the key. The Ricketts were set down at their bun- galow—shining—new. And then Bill Ger- trish drove diagonally across the wide wash of shale fringed with greasewood which was Magnolia Avenue. Aunt Jury, grotesquely white under a thick coating of alkali dust, climbed stiffly down with loud groans. Lynnie followed with the dejected crow. Bill Gerrish and the Princess Aimee Ardelie drove off with loud, cordial good-byes. It was sundown. A purple glow from the mountains flooded the broad street. The cabins and tents washed in amethyst took on beauty and significance. Never since her mother’s death had Lynnie felt so com- forted. All the big and noble forces of her ‘ nature responded to the purple and gold of the mountains. ‘Oh, look, Aunt Jury! The whole world is amethyst! I—I—feel like there’s happi- ness here for us.” But the old woman, with a hearkening look on her face, shook her head. ‘“ se a sebenth chile,’”’ she rejoined cryp- tically. “ Honey, Loch Lyn was a mighty safe place! Maybe we better not a-been so trabbel-unctous!”’ ‘“Sho’ly. Sho’ly,”’ came mournfully from the bird in the willow cage. TV. SYLVANITE was booming. The discovery of rich ore in the “ Jason’s Quest,” a mine owned by a small group of men, had brought together from every quarter, men and women who had adventured every- where, followed every strike since Nome days. They talked of only one thing—gold. Of where it was found yesterday—where it would show to-morrow. And it was the promise of to-morrow’s fortune which had drawn them here to dwell together, pre- cariously, in this baked and barren land. On the surface of this deep current floated other activities. The wives of mining men played bridge in the after- noons, and in the evening danced with their husbands at Slim’s Hall. On Thursday afternoons Slim’s Hall housed the ‘“‘ Daugh- ters of the Desert ”—earnest women with roughened hands and strong, hard, weather- beaten faces. The Daughters of the Des- ert was a secret society, but through the open windows could be heard hymns, sung lustily, followed by high pitched exhorta- tions. The Daughters were a force—igno- rant and earnest—and terrible in their in- tensity. Lynnie slept deeply, dreamlessly, after her long journey. She was awakened the next morning by a monologue floating in through the open side window—a steady stream of flattery, cajolery and, finally, caustic comment. ‘“There’s a good girl—have a heart,” she heard. And then: ‘Darn you, stand around here and act like a lady!” EORniclooo SCO) in