miles today without a bite to eat. I'm so weak I can hardly stand." "Come up stairs where its warm," replied Jones. "I have a basketful of lunch that you can have." "Thank you Mister," answered the man as he preceded Jones up the stairs. The wanderer sat by the stove, and attacked Jones' lunch with an appetite that showed he had been a long time without food. After eating he pulled off his shoes, socks and outer garments, and placed them by the stove where they would dry. He sat by the fire evidently in deep thought, then suddenly he asked Jones when the next train would be along. Jones told him the next train was the fast "Overland Express," which would be there within half an hour. Jones then asked him jokingly if he wished to have the "Overland" stopped in order to board "her." "No," answered the wanderer. "There's a big tree on the track about half a mile west of here. It was too heavy for me to lift off. I thought perhaps some one should go there and get it out of the way." "Great God!" cried Jones. "Why in hell didn't you tell me about this before? and he sprang for the telegraph key. "I was too cold and numb to think of it," replied the outcast. "Just my luck!" exclaimed Jones. "The wires are down. What shall I do?" Just then he happened to think of the trackman's velocipede, which was lying beside the tower. Quickly getting into his rubber coat and boots, and gathering up a red and white lantern, he rushed down the stairs. As he ran the velocipede on to the track, he heard the puffing of the "Overland's" big Pacific type engine, as the train began the ten-mile climb up Shelburne Grade. "I'm afraid its too late," he panted as he pumped the machine as fast as his arms would allow. "If I don't get near enough to signal them before they tip the grade, the jig is up. All hell won't stop them if they come down that hill at full speed; and if they hit that tree the chances are that the whole train will roll down the bank. What a stupid fool that hobo must be," thought Jones as he sped down the track pumping the little car till his body ached with the strain. The"Overland" whistled for a crossing about two-thirds of the way up the grade. Jones had still several hundred yards to go before he would be in a position where the engineer of the express could see his danger signal. Jones gritted his teeth, and savagely pumped the handles of the velocipede, the little car fairly flew ahead. Reeking with perspiration and gasping for breath Jones reached the spot where the tree lay across the track, just as the "Overland's" headlight flashed into sight at the top of the hill. Jones frantically swung his light across the track, and as two long blasts from the locomotive whistle told him that Bill Perry, the alert engineer of the "Overland," had seen his signal, Jones collapsed in the middle of the track, and the red light dropped from his hand. Bill Perry dropped his train down the hill slowly, and came to a stop about fifty feet from where Jones lay unconscious. "By jove," Bill called across the cab to his fireman, as the glare of the huge gas headlight flashed on the unconscious man lying in the track, and also the huge tree that completely blocked their passage. "Hello, there, with the red light," called the engineer. "He must be sick or injured," said the fireman, as he jumped off the engine and ran toward the inert figure in the track. The engineer lighted his torch, then signalled several sharp short blasts with the whistle to call the crew up ahead, then he climbed down off the engine and started towards the place where his fireman was bending over the unconscious Jones. "It's Jones from 'WG' tower," said the fireman. "He must have come down on that velocipede, he's probably all fagged out from pumping that car at top speed against this heavy wind; it's lucky for us he got here, though. If we'd ever hit that tree, at the speed we come down this hill, it would have been good bye.” "Let me try his pulse," said the engineer, who was a first aid to the injured enthusiast. "It's beating like a trip hammer," he exclaimed. "He probably nearly pumped his heart out to get here. It's pretty strenuous work for an old veteran on a night like this," and the engineer lifted Jones in his arms and carried him into the baggage car and laid him on the floor, then he went out and helped remove the obstruction. messenger in the car got out the 'first aid kit,' applied restoratives, and in a few moments Jones regained consciousBy the time the crew returned from removing the tree, Jones was able to talk. ness. The "Hello, Bill," he said weakly as the engineer came toward him. "I'm glad you saw me swing you up when you did, for I was about gone, and couldn't have swung that lantern again if I wanted to." "How did you find out the tree was there, Jones?" asked the engineer. "A hobo came to the tower and told me about it, he's up at the tower now. Please load on the velocipede and stop at the tower and let me off. I'll be all right to work again by the time we get there." "Just as you say." By this time the passengers had gathered around, and when they learned what had happened, a big breezy drummer suggested "passing the hat," for Jones. "No," said Jones firmly. "If you're going to pass the hat, pass it for the poor hobo up at the tower." "Right'o," some one cried. "Pass the hat for the "Bo." The hat was passed and the collection amounted to one hundred and three dollars. This was handed to Jones for the poor wanderer. When Jones returned to the tower he found the man sound asleep on the floor. After he waked up next morning Jones asked him if he had enjoyed a good nights' rest. "I never slept better in a bed than I did on this floor last night," he replied. "I am more than grateful to you for the food and shelter you gave me, I hope some day to be able to repay you. By the way did I tell you about a big tree in the track a mile or so back there, or was it a dream I had last night?" "You told me about the tree, my friend." Before I forget it, may I ask what your name is?" "Henry Jackson," answered the man, "and a descendent of the famous Andrew Jackson. I'm ashamed to be in this condition. I'm a machinist by trade. The shop I worked in shut down six months ago." "My wife and child were taken sick and died shortly after that. The doctor's bills and funeral expenses used up all my savings. There was no work to be had in Belmont, where I had lived for years, so I struck out through the country working at odd jobs. As you no doubt know, general business conditions have been so poor there's not much work to be had. I earned barely enough to keep alive. Then when my clothes began to look seedy no one would hire me and I was reduced to the level of a tramp. If I could only earn money enough to get a decent looking suit of clothes, I think I could get work in Greenville. I saw in a newspaper I picked up on the track, that the big shop there was advertising for machinists. Have you any idea where I could get something to do?" he asked wistfully. "On behalf of the passengers of the 'Overland Express,' whose lives you were instrumental in saving, I am pleased to hand you the snug sum of one hundred and three dollars, to it I will add this two-dollar bill, to make it even money. You will come to my house and breakfast with me. Then we can go to a clothing store where you can buy some clothes; then if you wish, you can take the noon train to Greenville. I have a son, foreman in the machine shop there. I will give you a letter to him, and in all probability he will put you to work. I have also wired the division superintendent of this road of what you did; and he informs me he will bring the matter before the board of directors, who will no doubt suitably reward you. He wants me to keep informed of your whereabouts, so that you can be reached when they decide what to do." 1 "Great God," cried the poor fellow, "this is too much," and he broke down and wept. "I "Brace up Jackson," said Jones. can see my relief coming, and we want to be already to skip out as soon as he comes. Go down stairs and 'wash up.'" "All right,” replied the wanderer as he descended the stairs. Wallace, the first trick man who relieved Jones, looked at Jackson rather suspiciously; it made the poor fellow feel embarrassed. "Shake hands with Mr. Jackson, Mr. Wallace," said Jones. "Jackson is the man who saved the 'Overland' from be ing wrecked last night." "There's an account of it in the morning paper," said Wallace as he grasped Jackson's hand. "I hope the railroad company will reward you." "I think they will," replied Jones. "Come on Jackson, we'll go over and get some of mother's hot buckwheat cakes and honey. So long Wallace." "So long," answered Wallace. "Good luck to you Mr. Jackson." "I thank you, the same to you," answered Jackson. Steamship Humboldt By Arthur Lawrence Bolton The Humboldt is one of the last of the great fleet that operated between San Francisco and Skagway during the days of the great Klondike rush. You come to us from Ketchikan, From Juneau and Skagway; You come to us from the Northern Sea, And with you come the wraiths of those The wraiths of those, and the broken hearts, I see again your laden decks, The dogs, the sleds and the gear; I hear the parting shouts of the throng That you shipped that fateful year; Stout were the hearts that you bore away To The Gate of The Unknown Land, Strong to answer adventure's call, And the lure of the golden sand. Well have you earned an easy berth, For the ships that lay by your side, The Fiddle Creek Range BE Halbert FIELDS was deliberate of O speech, deliberate of thought and deliberate of purpose. Like most men who preface action with reflection he was to be reckoned with in affairs of moment. Jim Botts was energetic, restless and eager for personal gain and was unhampered by scruples. These two had struck the High Plains of the upper Sacramento Valley in the same year-1880--and had squatted upon adjoining claims. Wool was high, mutton in demand, and summer range free, so the herds of Fields and Botts brought easy money to their respective owners. Botts kept a sleepless eye upon the markets, and bought and sold with amazing frequency. Fields held loyally to his original herd and improved the strain by importing rams from Vermont and Ohio. At the end of five years Botts was rated the wealthiest sheepman on the High Plains. Fields was known to have the best herd in Tehama County. During the formative period following the Civil War California opened her doors to an inrush of hungry settlers. Lands she had in abundance and these she bestowed with lavish hand. Rich bottoms sold at the rate of two and a half dollars per acre. Range was as free as the air. It was not until the eighties that the stockman awoke to the fact that free range would soon be a thing of the past. Obe Fields, in his deliberate way, sensed the coming change more slowly than some of his neighbors. As a consequence he had two sections of railroad land bought from under his nose. It was at first reported that the purchaser was a stranger from Texas, but inside of a week Jim Botts smilingly informed Fields that the land was his. Botts' winter range lay along Fiddle Creek, two H Sauber miles north of Fields' camp. Obe's range was gutted. He studied the situation through one dull, miserable evening and the next day, rode to Mayo to file a pre-emption claim upon the quarter-section where his lambing camp lay, but once more his habit of deliberating had cost him dearly. A nephew of Jim Botts had filed upon the tract the preceding day. So matters stood on the first of May, when the drive to the summer range began. Obe summered on White Rock meadows, a verdant valley in the heart of the Sierras, Botts on Outlaw Creek, thirty miles further north. The two did not meet until August, then Botts rode up to Fields' log cabin, in a late twilight, on his way to the Sacramento Valley. two squandered no time in wasted civilities. The "You ain't figuring on elbowing me off my homestead, are you?" asked Fields bluntly of the man on horseback. Botts spat prodically, and bit off a fresh chew of tobacco, his teeth showing to the molars. "Not by a damn sight," was his laughing reply, "but I'm going to fasten my fangs on Section Twenty-one, if you want to know." Obe's gray eyes dropped. Section Twenty-one lay south of his winter cabin, while Fiddle Creek broke out of the hills three miles to the north. It had not occurred to him that Jim would think of buying a section so distant from his winter quarters. Obe had fully made up mind to buy Twenty-one himself as his best chance of making his range good after losing the two sections in the spring. Eagerness to get an early start across the mountain in order that his herd might pick the cream of the trail feed, had prevented him from visiting the land office at that time. He fully intended to make that his first business in the fall. Now, he was too late. "Going out now for that purpose?" he asked, lifting his eyes. "I'm on my way," was the triumphant retort. "See this old sorrel?" Botts slapped the raw-boned beast on the rump, "He'll carry me to Mayo before sundown tomorrow. The land office is open for business till seven o'clock. Say, want me to put in a bid for you?" and the pushing man of business laughed again with brutal frankness. Obe's glance traveled out across the meadow, which lay flat and fertile in the twilight. "I can't get away now," he began hesitatingly, "I've got a Spanish boy who don't know much about the range, and I can't leave him alone." "Who's expecting you to get away?" laughed Botts with offensive gayety, "I ask, do you want me to put in a bid for you? You know the railroad company is itching to sell its land." "Of course I was a damn fool to think you would let up on me once you'd got your hooks on the best part of my range," said Obe bitterly. He threw a look at Botts full of cold contempt. "Wouldn't trust you, Jim to put in a bid for a blind orphan, if you want to know; but since you've got the screws on me I'm willing to pay the doctor. I'll give you a dollar an acre if you'll turn back and leave Twenty-one to me." The laughter of Botts rang out in the twilight. "A dollar an acre," he mocked. "Six hundred and forty iron washers for a pleasant day's ride. Well, that wouldn't be so bad now, would it? But all the same I don't see it that way. Foothill range is going to double in value in the next two years. A dollar an acre! No, Obe, you're cheap. Twenty-one is mine, as sure as this old red wolf can carry me to Mayo by sundown tomorrow." He slapped the sorrel again. “And by if he caves in on me I'll buy another rack of bones, and toddle right along. Horses was made for man to kill, anyway." "You've got the name of being the one who can kill them," was Fields' cold retort. Botts accepted the charge as a complipliment. "You bet your sweet life," he cried, "and I make the killing pay, don't never forget that." Fields' gray eyes no longer sought the ground. They shot level glances into Bott's restless face. "What if I should happen to beat you to the land office?" he demanded with a peculiar drawl. Once more Blotts' laugh rang across the meadow. "On the old gray mare?" he shouted derisively," I'll pitch camp, and take a good night's sleep, and then will dust you from Hell to breakfast, if that's your game. You're said to be good at legging it, Obe, but you'd surely look sick after trying a break with me at the saddle game. I was raised on a horse." The rider jerked himself stiff in his saddle, and shoved his hat to the back of his bullet head with a swagger. Baring his teeth he went on boldly: "I suppose yon won't set the hounds on me if I pitch camp down by the lake? I expect to hit the dust early." Obe was absently scratching his chin. "Pitch your camp where you like," he replied thoughtfully, and, after a moment added: "You may turn your horse loose in the pasture if you want to. The sheep have left poor picking outside that fence." Botts accepted the offer of his rival both as to pitching camp and to using the fenced enclosure. Fields returned to his cabin under the tamaracks, gravely turning over in his mind the problem presented by Botts' appearance. It was nearly nine o'clock. Obe had heard Jim boast of being able to do with six hours' sleep. On an occasion deemed urgent he could probably do with five. He ought to be in his blankets and asleep by nine-thirty. Allowing him half an hour in the morning to eat a bite of breakfast, and saddle his horse would leave him pounding the road to the valley by three o'clock. By way of the Carson freight road Mayo lay seventy miles from White |