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 "Haven't you got any relatives at all in this country, Tom?" Mrs. Ellison asked.

She was darning a large, comfortable sock, he wondered for whom, a little gourd of the kind called cymblin pushed into the broken toe. She scarcely looked up from her careful work when she spoke.

"Not a soul," he replied, so readily and cheerfully as to give the impression that he preferred relatives afar to relatives close at hand any day. "Oh well, I have a distant uncle in Kansas City—one of those chaps who takes charge of your detachable property under certain conditions, you know. His name is Blitz."

"Oh, you get out!"

Mrs. Ellison rebuked his apparent facetiousness, not quite understanding the relationship. But Eudora understood all about that kind of uncle. She grinned, not very mirthfully, for she knew that uncommon hard luck must have pushed Tom to Mr. Blitz's door.

"He means a pawnbroker, mother—a place where you leave your watch for ten dollars till you can rake up the money to redeem it."

"Bless my soul!" said Mrs. Ellison, genuinely startled and shocked. She stopped darning to look at him with astonished severity. "I hope you haven't been gamblin'?"

"Mother!" Eudora chided, but gently, the reflection of an ungrinned grin in her eyes. For she had a notion that it must have been that way, knowing men somewhat better than her mother, a state of sophistication not uncommon in any age.

"Just so," Tom admitted, nodding gravely, his eyes as straight ahead as his pipestem pointed.

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 "Well, I'm glad you're honest enough to admit it, anyhow," Mrs. Ellison said. "What kind of a game did you lose on? They're all crooked, they tell me."

"A kind of a game of checkers," Tom replied, his eyes still fixed straight ahead on nothing but the kitchen wall that anybody but himself could see. What he saw was another thing.

"One of the biggest fool, triflin' games of all," Mrs. Ellison commented with the decisiveness of authority. "I'm surprised at you, Tom Simpson!"

"The game is played," said Tom, not turning from his concentrated staring for even one wink, "on small oblongs of land called city lots. A fellow puts his money down on them, expecting to make a quick move that will bring him out winner—then he goes to see his uncle, Blitz."

"I heard about that real estate boom in Kansas City," Mrs. Ellison said, nodding, fully enlightened now. "My sister in Lexington wrote to me about it—her husband's been dabblin' around in it expectin' to make a fortune."

"There's a large hole in the bottom of it now," Tom said.

"I suppose that Blitz man's got everything you own—you gambled down to the last dollar you could rake and scrape, I reckon, like a man will do."

"No," said Tom, looking at her with a lively light in his eyes, "my trunk and all my gay, as well as somber, apparel is being retained by a dear humanitarian for certain arrears in room rent. I hope to be able to recover it from her, but"

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Page Ten at convenient depots, and varying in length from 40 feet down to 26 feet.

Special provision is made at the Wairau crossing on the Havelock section for carrying the line over the river on three steel towers, the central towers being supported from steel joists driven into the river bed, with protection against flood damage.

The Mahakipawa line, which will traverse the hills from Havelock to Mahakipawa, will be built on easily transportable steel rails.

The reticulation is of the type whieh is now standard throughout New Zealand, supply being given to all consumers at 230 volts for lighting, heating, cooking, etc., and at 400 volts for power purposes.

WIRING OF HOUSES.

Profiting by the experience of older Boards which proves that, in the first two or three years of operation, serious losses have been incurred through the fact that when power was switched on there were insufficient consumers to provide revenue to meet the expenses, the Marlborough Power Board has, from the outset, endeavored to induce prospective consumers to have their premises wired, so that an immediate market would be available for the current generated. To this end, provision was made in the loan proposal under which the Board has paid the initial expense of wiring consumers’ premises, and is being recouped under the instalment system. A contract was also let to a firm of wiring contractors, wnder whieh the firm agreed to canvass the district for consumers, amd wire such premises as they got orders for.

THE MEN WHO BUILT THE DAM. Some of the hands employed by the Contractor, Mr. W. Williamson, of Christchurch,

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 "Her? Do you mean to tell me there's any woman that onery in the state of Missouri?"

"I think it's a question of security, rather than morals," Tom said.

"And you startin' to go away out to the Panhandle without even a change of shirts to your back!"

"Oh, mother!" said Eudora softly, a bit shocked, or making a good pretense of being, at any rate, by these personal references.

Mrs. Ellison was flushed with resentment against the hard-fisted lady in Kansas City, whose conduct in holding the trunk she took as a reflection on the world-famed hospitality of Missourians. She doubtless felt very matriarchal, although she was not more than half as old as she imagined herself to be, having nothing of the look of grandmother about her as she flicked her quick needle in and out mending the hole in the big yarn sock. Only that her years of isolation had been long, and the world of Missouri and her young days seemed very far away.

"Well, I'll tell you what you'll do, Tom Simpson," she said, laying it down with determination not to be gainsaid, "you'll stay right here on this place till you can send for that trunk. I'm not goin' to have any man wanderin' around over the country without even as much as an extra handkerchief to blow his nose on."

She paused in her work to give him a defiant look, as if daring him to set up his desires and decisions against her own.

"You are very-very kind," Tom Simpson said, his voice gentle and low.

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 ARISTOTLE'S CRITICISM OF THE ELEATICS 35 Parmenides with the idea of a mere globular form of ultimate being, "a fixed and homogeneous mass, symme- trically extended from its centre on all sides "33. Zeller, however, admits a little further on that we would be justified in rejecting this description as metaphorical, only if we could otherwise find any indication that Par- menides conceived Being as incorporeal. It is just this incorporeality of Parmenides' Being which we hope to establish by reference to the ontological strain of Par- menides' thought as understood both by Plato and Aris- totle; but before we proceed to the Platonic-Aristotelian interpretation, we shall first dismiss the materialistic interpretation of Parmenides by discovering the root- source of the fallacy. 7. The Fallacy of the Materialistic Interpretation of Parmenides by Burnet and Zeller exposed. The fundamen- tal mistake of Burnet and Zeller and other similar inter- preters of Parmenides consists in their fallacious identi- fication of an analogy with a fact. Shutting their eyes. deliberately to the general tenor of Parmenides' Poem which is unmistakably ontological, these critics have pinned their hope on a single passage which is as follows:-

αὐτὰρ ἐπεί πειρας πύματον,τετελεσμένον ἐστὶ πάντοϑεν, εὐκύκλου σφαίρης ἐναλίγκιον όγκῳ, μεσσόθεν ἰσοπαλὲς πάντῃ.

Now anybody who will take the trouble of interpreting this Greek passage will see immediately that Being is here "compared to a sphere, and not "identified " with it. It must be remembered that:

33. Zeller 1. 589. 34. Ibid.
 * 9

authors: सुबोध कुलकर्णी


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 Eudora, busy with the after-supper work around the big, home-feeling room, came to the table where her mother sat across from Tom. She was shrouded in a checked apron, her short, curly black hair—it fell about midway of her rather long slender neck—pushed back from her forehead and held by a curved comb. There was eagerness in her eyes, a color of excitement in her bright handsome face.

"I've been wondering, mother," she said, dividing a Jook between her parent and guest, "if we couldn't get Mr. Simpson to go in with us on the bone business? I could pick them up and haul them here, and T— Mr. Simpson, could do the long hauling to town."

"That's what's he's going to do," Mrs. Ellison replied calmly. "I had it all decided on when I spoke."

"There's no big money in it," Eudora explained, taking it for granted that Tom had been drafted and wouldn't refuse to serve, "but it will beat a cowboy job. All that worries me is that gang of horsethieves. They'll lay for you—either in Drumwell or along the road."

"I'm going to take it up with Sheriff Treadwell," Mrs. Ellison announced in her final way. "He's paid to rid the country of that kind of people, even if we never did call on him when we had men of our own to keep them in their proper places. If he can't do it, or won't do it, I'll know the reason why."

"I rather think they can be managed," Tom said quietly.

"You'll help us, then, will you, Tom? You'll go in with us?" Eudora fairly sparkled with eagerness as she

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 put the double question, which all amounted to the same thing.

"You're too generous in taking up a stray chap this way, Mrs. Ellison, Miss Eudora."

Tom rose formally as he spoke, laying his pipe aside, his face as serious as if millions were hanging on the deal. And in relation to his financial status at that hour, it was a very important piece of business for Tom Simpson, indeed. A dollar looked as big to him that night as the hind wheel of a wagon.

"Then it's yours for bones," Eudora said, reaching her hand across the table to seal the compact as man to man.

"And for the bones," said Tom, squeezing her hand a little more ardently than a plain business transaction justified, beyond a doubt.

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Sheriff Treadwell came around next day while Tom was greasing the wagons and making ready to go into the business of transporting bones. The sheriff had taken his own time about making a start to investigate Coburn's appeal for help in recovering his money, and had been stimulated to push his investigations that far only by the the vague report of a fight at the Ellison ranch. A homesteader had heard the shooting and seen the defeated party pass by carrying a man across a saddle. He had told a neighbor, who had passed the news along until it finally reached the sheriff.

The sheriff was a small solemn man of clerical appearance. He arrived in a buckboard drawn by two horses, more in the state of a judge than a sheriff, no arms buckled on him, his badge of office carefully concealed under his short double-breasted black coat. He wore a narrow-brimmed derby hat and shoes with large black buttons, and he was altogether a trim and spick, metropolitan appearing man, about as far removed from the general type of Kansas cow-county sheriff as well could be imagined. He had a sharp and wide-awake look about him which was sufficient evidence to Tom Simpson that if he didn't break a hamestring in his efforts to catch the thieves who plagued the borders of his jurisdiction it was for very good reasons of his own.

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32 succeeded by his son Ratan Singh II, who after reigning for four years was killed by Rao Surajmal of Bundi. Vikramaditya then ascended the throne, but was assassinated in 1535 A.D. by Banbir, the illegitimate son of Rana Sangh's brother. He ruled for only two years, when Udai Singh, the younger son of Rana Sangh, dethroned him ( 1537-72 A.D. ). During his reign occurred the last siege and sack of Chitor by Akbar, whereupon Rana Udai Singh founded a new city, in a remote district, naming it 'Udaipur' after him. It has ever since been the capital of Mewar.

Pratapsingh I succeeded his father Udai Singh ( 1572-97 A.D. ). He fought several battles with the Mogul Emperor and suffered a severe defeat at Haldighat in 1576 A.D.; but his indomitable courage and iron-will prevailed. He maintained an unceasing warfare with his foes, recovered nearly all his dominions, and never yielded to the throne of Delhi. Pratap Singh was succeeded by his son Amar Singh, who, having met several reverses at the hands of Emperor Jahangir surrendered himself to him in 1614 A.D.; stipulating, however, that he should never be called upon to do homage in person but to be allowed to do it by proxy in the person of his son. This compromise was accepted, the Imperial troops were withdrawn, and Mewar was allowed to enjoy perfect peace. In the time of Raj Singh I Aurangzeb imposed a capitation tax {Jazia) on the Hindus. The Rana remonstrated with the Emperor in a dignified letter, which is considered a remarkable document in the history of Mewar. This act of the Rana irritated the Emperor; and his army poured in overwhelming numbers, and devastated the country. The war was continued with varying fortunes during subsequent reigns, but these vicissitudes could not shake the continuity of the ancient dynasty of Mewar. Rana Jaya Singh succeeded his father in 1680 A.D. and concluded a treaty with Aurangzeb in 1681 A.D., by which the right of levying the capitation tax was waived.

After a century of protracted wars and struggles for supremacy between the Rajputs, Mahrattas, and Mahomedans, Mewar passed under the rule of Bhim Singh II (1778-1828 A.D.), who entered into a treaty with the British Government in 1817 A.D. His successor Rana Sarup Singh distinguished himself by his loyalty to the British by affording shelter to several English refugees from Neemuch, and treatintg them hospitably during the Mutiny of 1857 A.D. The next Rana was Shambhu Singh whose munificence and efficient administration during the ravages of the terrible famine (1868-69 A.D.) gained him the title of G.C.S.I. in 1871 A.D. He was succeeded by Sajan Singh (1874-84 A.D.) who also was created G.C.S.I. The rulership passed by adoption to the present Maharana Fateh Singhji, a descendant of the fourth son of Rana Sangram II, with the approval of the Government of India. In 1885 A.D. the Maharana ascended the throne, and received the insignia of Knight Grand Commander of the Star of India in 1887 A.D. A few months later in the same year, the Imperial Order of the Crown of India was presented to Her Highness the Maharani. The present Maharana has earned a good name by his just and kind rule and his upright and noble character.

The military strength of the State is 6,015 all told, both regular and irregular and it costs the State about 6½ lacs a year. The area of the State is 12,691 square miles, with a population of about 10¼ lacs and a revenue of 26 lacs of rupees.

The Ruler of Udaipur is one of the eight princes in Rajputana who are entitled to a salute of 19 guns, but as a personal distinction two guns have been added in his case.


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 Mrs. Ellison recounted the incidents attending Simpson's arrival at her home, growing almost epical in her praise of his conduct in recovering their property and his own. The sheriff did not laugh when Tom explained the mixup in Drumwell that had led to his riding off on Coburn's horse with the cowman's money tied on the saddle, but an appreciation of the situation glimmered in his quick blue eyes when he heard how the horse had returned to the pastures of his colthood days. He asked to see the horse. Eudora led the animal out of the barn.

Yes, he remembered the horse perfectly and could identify him anywhere. Coburn's brand didn't cut any ice, beyond the proof of dishonest intention on his part. He must have known it was a stolen horse, even if he never had seen the posters advertising its loss. If he ever had the gall to come there laying claim to the horse, take a shot at him. That was the only answer to make to such a demand: take a shot at him.

The sheriff didn't appear at all surprised to learn that Simpson had delivered the money to its owner. He had more interest in the description of the men who had followed Tom to the ranch under the pretense of being a legal posse. He nodded as if fully enlightened when Tom described the long-legged leader.

"Wade Harrison," he said.

Mrs. Ellison's face grew white when the sheriff pronounced the name. She made a little gasping sound, her ready tongue momentarily incapable under the stress of her consternation. Eudora was scarcely less shocked by the revelation. She stared breathlessly at the sheriff, as

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 if he had spoken the most surprising and shocking words that had ever reached her ears.

"That man!" Mrs. Ellison said, looking from one to the other in fearful amazement. "I might have known, I might have known!"

The sheriff nodded again, his broad mouth shut so close it made a line across his face.

"No doubt about it," he said. "He was quite an eminent bank robber," he explained, seeing the question in Simpson's eyes. "He'd held up several trains, and robbed a government paymaster or two, and killed more men than he had fingers and toes, I guess. He had his hangout down in the hills along the Salt Fork in the Nation. We all knew that. But nobody ever tracked him to it. If he did he never come back. Ye-es, he was quite an eminent man."

Simpson did not appear to be greatly impressed. He had a wagon jack under a hind axle, and had been smearing the thimble with grease when the sheriff arrived. He resumed smoothing the grease with a wooden paddle after a little "Um-m-m," which seemed adequately to express his full appreciation of the border character's importance.

Sheriff Treadwell seemed somewhat affronted at the apparent indifference or plain dumbness of this stranger. He turned a sharp, frowning look on Simpson, who had picked up the lynch-pin of the old-time prairie freight wagon and was scraping the caked grease off with his paddle.

"You may not be able to throw in another lucky shot like that, kid, next time you meet that bunch," the sheriff

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 said. "If you ain't got no special business around this part of the country my tip to you'd be to hit the grit."

"Mr. Simpson's going in with me on the bone business," Eudora said, somewhat high in her manner, resenting the sheriff's imputation of luck rather than marksmanship and valor in the recent encounter with the border's eminent outlaw.

"It'd pay you to keep a gun hangin' around handy, anyhow, pardner," the sheriff hinted, a hard edge on the words that meant a great deal more than he really said.

"Oh, very well," Simpson replied, with what seemed light, almost lofty, indifference.

"That's a bad outfit down around Drumwell," the sheriff continued reading his lecture; "they'll hang around and gang a man they've got it in for when he's least expectin' it. I've been keepin' hands off, lettin' 'em work the froth off like a Dutchman does his wine, but I'll have to clean up on 'em one of these days. The trouble is if a man started in on 'em he wouldn't know who to take and who to leave."

The sheriff inquired whether Simpson was certain Wade Harrison was dead when his companions of the road loaded him on his horse and carried him away. Eudora was quick to answer for him.

"Oh, I'm sure he was, Mr. Treadwell. They wouldn't handle a live man that way—slingin' him around like a sack of bran."

"You'd better come along with me, Simpson," Sheriff Treadwell said, giving the women a start, but easing their fears before they could protest. "We'll track 'em

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 Travancore.

NO authentic history of the foundation of this State is available, it being all shrouded in myths and legends. A tradition, however, is preserved that the whole of the Malabar coast was reclaimed from the sea by the powerful Shri Parashram, and peopled several thousands of years ago by a colony of Brahmans from over the ghauts; and that afterwards, some form of government becoming necessary, Kshatriyas, or chiefs of the warrior race, were invited and elected to rule for cycles of twelve years These eventually got a permanent footing in the country; and the last of them, named Cheraman Perumal, who held sway over the whole coast, parcelled out his dominions among his children, the eldest of whom got for his share the southernmost portion, and a small village, now known as Tiruvankadu, which was the then capital. This event is said to have taken place about 1,200 years ago, and the present dynasty may, therefore, be presumed to have begun from at least this period.

Though commercial relations between Europe and Travancore are said to have existed so far back as the time of the Romans, no reliable account of it is now extant. At a very early period, a colony of Jews settled on the coast, and later on a colony of Syrian Christians was brought over by a merchant, Kona Thoma, and domiciled in the country. The more recent relations with the West date, of course, from the discovery of the passage round the Cape of Good Hope, by which route, first the Portuguese, then the Dutch, and lastly the English came to the shores of India, with no other object in view but commerce.

The English settled at Anjingo, where they obtained permission to build a factory in 1684 A.D., and located a commercial Resident, who used to supply the Travancore Raja with military clothing, arms, and ammunition in exchange for pepper and other valuable products of the country Travancore at this time was engaged in petty wars with several neighbouring chiefs, and was generally victorious in each of them, having a considerable army disciplined after European model and commanded by either Portuguese, Dutch, or Italian officers, who, coming out as soldiers of fortune, enlisted themselves in the military service of the Raja. This will explain why Travancdtte was at that time in need of European arms -and ammunition. The great historical events, which occurred in Southern India about this time, soon transformed the purely com' mercial relations with foreigners into political alliances; and during the wars with Hyder AH and Tipu, Travancore was the steadfast ally of the British, and was included as such in the Treaty of 1784 A.D. between the Hon'ble .East India Company and the Sultan. Subsequently, the invasion of Malabar by the latter created an apprehension in the mind of the Raja of Travancore and led' to the agreement of 1788 A.D., by which the assistance of certain military forces of the Hon'ble East India Company was secured, the cost of them being borne by Travancore and paid in cash or in pepper.

In 1795 A.D. another treaty was concluded between the Hon'ble East India Company and the Raja, by which the three districts claimed by Tipu were restored to Travancore, and the Hon'ble East India Company engaged to protect the latter from all foreign invasions, on payment of the annual cost of three battalions of sepoys, a company


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 a ways and see if we can find where they dumped him. If he was dead they wouldn't carry him far. You'd better bring your gun along."

Simpson preferred a rifle for such scouting expeditions, it appeared, a choice of weapons which met the sheriff's approval and lifted the stranger a notch in his esteem. The sheriff said a buckboard would be somewhat out of order for such business, and requested the loan of a horse. It happened that Simpson had a number of animals in the corral, with the purpose in mind to try some of them out in harness, few on the place having been broken to work. He saddled two likely ones, using the saddle he had borrowed from Coburn for himself.

As they started down the road in the direction the raiders had gone three days before, the sheriff said they'd make inquiries of the homesteaders in the valley below the Ellison place, meantime keeping an eye on the road to see if they could discover where the gang had turned out of it. If Harrison had been wounded and not killed they would head right on to Drumwell and a doctor. Otherwise they would leave the road to dispose of their burden somewhere.

"If we can find that feller's carcase you're in for a handy little piece of money," he said. "There's twenty-five hundred to three thousand dollars reward out for that man. But we've got to find the corpus delicti; you can't prove a thing without the corpus delicti."

The sheriff was proud of his coroner's Latin, and was evidently innocent of any misapplication of the term in the present case. Although it was not exactly complimentary to Simpson, he knew the sheriff did not mean

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 to imply that a crime had been committed in the removal of Wade Harrison from the scene. The body of Harrison would be the principal evidence, and that was what the sheriff was driving at.

As they rode that afternoon through the languorous October haze, Sheriff Treadwell told many a story of the outlaw who had fallen before Simpson's gun, in a good many of which a certain "feller" figured in the capacity of peace officer here and there in the famous cow-towns of Kansas. This feller, always nameless, had crossed lines with Harrison in more than one battle, when wounds had been given and taken, and the sheriff made it plain that an undying enmity had grown up between that peace officer and the lanky outlaw, who had carried a charmed piece of money in his pocket that had brought him through these various battles with his life.

But this unnamed feller, this peace officer, who had followed that business as faithfully as his enemy had stuck to his lawless trade, had gradually edged Harrison off the map of Kansas. He had taken refuge in the Nation four or five years ago, married a squaw and made himself solid with the chiefs, who were about as rascally a set of politicians as could be found. From his lair in the Nation Harrison raided the Kansas border, confining his activities of late exclusively to horses. These he found unquestioning market for among his Indian neighbors, and even in Texas when the local demand was slack.

The sheriff spoke slightingly of Drumwell, where Harrison and his gang were welcomed on account of the money they spent. More than once when the feller, pursuing his ancient enemy, was about to close in on Harrison while

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Rh of European artillery, and two companies of lascars. Travancore, on its part, bound itself not to enter into any engagement with other European nations, nor to allow them to settle in the country, without the consent of the Hon'ble East India Company. It further undertook to assist with its own troops the English in their wars, and the Hon'ble East India Company on its part undertook to bear the cost of the troops.

The Raja who ruled over Travancore in 1805 AD. was Rama Varma. He died in 1811 A. D. and was succeeded by Princess Laxmi Rani, who, though very young, displayed much prudence and courage in confiding the affairs of the State into the hands of the British Resident, Colonel Munro. Travancore is much indebted for a thorough reform in every branch of the administration to the generous nature and practical wisdom of this gentleman, who held the office of Diwan to Her Highness simultaneously with that of British Resident.

When Laxmi Rani died in 1814 A. D. leaving a daughter and two sons, all of them minors, she was succeeded by her sister Parvati Rani, who ruled as Regent till her late sister's elder son, Rama Varma, came of age, and assumed the Government in 1829 A.D. After a distinguished rule of seventeen years he died and was succeeded by his younger brother, Martanda Varma, in 1846 A.D. It was during this Prince's rule that an ivory throne was presented to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and the Maharaja received in return a gold belt and a watch accompanied by an autograph letter from Her Majesty expressive of kind regards.

Martanda Varma was succeeded in 1860 A.D. by his nephew, Rama Varma, who received in 1862 A.D. from Lord Canning, the then Governor-General of India, a sanad granting him and his successors the right of adoption on failure of natural heirs. He died in 1880 A.D. and was succeeded by his brother, also called Rama Varma, who in 1885 A.D was succeeded by the present Maharaja H. H Sir Bala Rama Varma G. C. S. I.

The administration of the State is conducted in the name and under the authority of His Highness the Maharaja by the Diwan or Prime Minister. A popular Council consisting of non-official gentlemen, nominated by the State to represent the various talukas, towns, and the planting interests, has been constituted to ascertain public opinion upon administrative questions. Legislation has since 1888 A.D. been in the hands of a Legislative Council which consists of eight members, three of them being non-officials, with the Diwan as ex-officio President.

The State maintains a small artillery for saluting purposes, and one brigade of infantry and a body-guard for the Maharaja.

The extent of the State is 7,000 square miles, with a population of 35 lacs and an annual revenue of a little over one crore of Rupees

The present ruler of the State is His Highness Sir Bala Rama Varma Bahadur Sri Padmanabhadas Vanchipala Sri Rama Varma Kulasekhara Kintapati Muni Sultan Maharaja, Raja Rama Raja Bahadur Samsher Jung, G.C.S.I., G C.I E., M.R.A.S., and is entitled to a salute of 21 guns.


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 at his carousals in Drumwell, the crooks of that town had hidden the scoundrel under their beds and saved his skin.

They were a low breed, the sheriff said; nothing like the old-timers of Abilene, Wichita and McPherson. There was a certain kind of honor among the thieves and gamblers of those once-happy places. Not so in Drumwell. They were a bunch of tin-horn sports and handkerchief gamblers, and the meanest sneak among them was the city marshal, who was Wade Harrison's chief scout.

The little sheriff certainly enlarged mightily in Tom Simpson's regard that sunny afternoon. Not once through that long recital of battles, plots and breathless escapes did he ever identify himself outright as the "feller," or connect himself with any of the moving events by one egotistical upper-case I. The evasion was made with the delicacy of true modesty, not uncommonly the harmonious companion of temperate valor.

The two men left the ranch-house strangers; at dusk they returned to it friends. Each had been given the opportunity to look under the case of the other, at the inner works; each finding there the full-jewelled movement of a man. But they had not discovered the trail of Wade Harrison's band, nor the hiding-place of the notorious scoundrel's body, living or dead. Two homesteaders about three miles from the Ellison ranch had seen them pass, carrying a limp and apparently lifeless man across the saddle. From that point all trace of them was lost.

After the sheriff had driven away on his long journey to the county seat, there was another conference around the big dining-table in the kitchen. Mrs. Ellison was in a

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 pessimistic mood, oppressed by a fear of revengeful reprisals by the outlaw's followers. She expected them to return, burn the buildings, drive off every hoof of livestock on the place and take bloody revenge for the defeat they had suffered there.

She did not reveal these fears emotionally, but the cloud of apprehension made her words seem almost prophetic. Under the shadow of this overhanging dread everything looked dark, even the proposed venture on the business of collecting bones.

"It seemed to me, as I thought it all over this afternoon, that you children just as well expect to make your fortune buyin' eggs as sellin' bones," she said.

"We don't expect to make a fortune, mother," Eudora set her right gently. "Only to lay the foundation of it." This she tacked on brightly, smiling across at Tom Simpson, who nodded, and made a little stair-step building movement with his hand, as if to illustrate how their fortune would grow from the small beginning of bones.

"Just so," he said heartily. "There are plenty of historical precedents for fortunes founded on bones. Very auspicious beginning, I should say."

"You can laugh about it, you two young ones," Mrs. Ellison said, shaking her head sadly, "but I've seen more fortunes turn to bones on this range than ever started out of them."

"But things have changed, mother," Eudora argued. "We're down to bones, nothing but bones, and when you can market your misfortune, I say hop to it."

"Yes, we've got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars layin' out there on the range represented by bones," Mrs.

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 Bahawalpur.

BAHAWALPUR is one of the Mahomedan States in the Punjab. The ruling family who claim their descent from the Abbasid Khalifs of Egypt, came to Sindh in the beginning of the 14th century, defeated Rai Dhaurang, the ruler of Sindh, and established themselves in the northern part of the country, with Shikarpur as their head-quarters.

Early in the 18th century the Abbasi settlers in Sindh were divided into two rival families, the Dadpotras and Kalhoras. Amir Sadiq Mahommed Khan, the head of the former, marched out with his followers in quest of territory, and secured for himself the tract round about, where the city of Bahawalpur now stands. He laid the town of Allahabad in 1729 A.D. and wrested the fort of Derwar from Rawal Ajai Singh of Jaisalmer in 1733 A.D. He died in 1746 A.D. and was succeeded by his son Mahommed Bahawal Khan I. He founded the city of 'Bahawalpur' which he named after him, and made it his capital. He died in 1749 A.D. and was succeeded by his nephew as Bahawal Khan 11. In 1779 A.D. Emperor Shah Alum conferred on him the title of "Rukam-ud-daula Nasrat Jung Mukhhis-ud-daula Hafiz-ul-mulk", which the Nawabs of Bahawalpur still hold.

The rise of Maharaja Ranjit Singh was viewed with alarm by the Nawab of Bahawalpur, and he repeatedly requested the British Government for protection, but without success. Mr. Mountstuart Elphinstone during his journey on his mission to Kabul in 1808 A.D. passed through Bahawalpur when visits were interchanged with the Nawab. This may be said to be the commencement of the relations of friendship that have subsisted between the British Government and the Nawab of Bahawalpur, although they were definitely setded later on.

Bahawal Khan II died in 1809 A.D. and was succeeded by his son, who ruled till his death in 1825 A.D. His son and successor, Bahawal Khan III, sent a representative to Lord William Bentick, the Viceroy and Governor-General, to request him to dissuade Ranjit Singh from his plan of attacking Bahawalpur. The Goveror 'General successfully bound the Maharaja of Lahore to abstain from any invasion on Bahawalpur territory, and ..the first regular treaty with Bahawalpur was made in July 1833 A.D. This agreement was renewed in 1838 A.D. The Nawab rendered great assistance to the British Government during the First Afgan War, and in 1848 A.D. on the breaking out of the Multan War against Diwan Mularj, he actively co-operated with the forces under Sir Herbert Edwards and General Cartlandt; and the result of their combined action was the surrender of Multan. These valuable services were acknowledged by the British Government, by the grant to the Nawab of a life-pension of one lac of Rupees annually, and of the districts of Sabzal, Kot, and Bhung.

Nawab Bahawal Khan III died in 1852 A.D. and his third son, Sadatyar Khan setting the eldest brother at defiance, assumed the government with the title of Sadiq Mahommed Khan III; but the new ruler was deposed, and the rightful elder brother, Nawab FatelvKhan, ascended the masnad. The British Govrenment recognised him as the Nawab. During the Mutiny of 1 857 A.D., Nawab Fateh Khan rendered a


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 Ellison sighed. "They're scattered all the way from here to the Cimarron, and you two couldn't find enough of them to pay back one percent on what that herd of living cattle represented."

"We're not going to confine oureslves to the Block E brand when it comes to bones, mother," Eudora said with her big, boyish grin. "All bones look alike to us."

"Let these poor, good-for-nothing homesteaders have 'em," Mrs. Ellison counseled, with a flash of the old range enmity against farmers. "Bless your innocent hearts, you two couldn't make a hundred dollars between now and Christmas, picking up bones and haulin' them down to Drumwell at five dollars a ton."

"We'll get more than that," Eudora declared. "Tom knows a man in Kansas City who buys them; we're going to sell them direct."

"A hide man," Tom nodded. "I got to know him through the affinity of the craft."

"I guess you mean the smell, Tom," Mrs. Ellison said, smiling in spite of the clouds when she remembered the of her youth. "Even if you got twice that much you'd be a long time gettin' rich. It's a good two-days' haul from here to Drumwell, and you can't take more than a jag over these roads. Besides, it will be plain murder for us to let Tom go down to that nest of thieves, with old Wade Harrison's gang layin' for him. I'll not be guilty of it; I'm not going to let him go."

The two young ones knew she had come to the core of her objection with that. Both of them had thought of that menace to their undertaking, but both had minimized it, in the confident way of youth with what seems

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 insuperable obstacles to the old. For youth is the fortune-builder; earth's singing pioneer.

"There'll be no difficulty in that quarter," Tom assured her with cheerful face. "That sheriff is a very competent little man; he'll be keeping the road clear."

"Yes, any time you look to the sheriff, or anybody else, to clear the road for you!"

Mrs. Ellison discounted the implication of protection, knowing it was as far from Simpson's thoughts as her own.

In spite of her high opinion of his valor and sufficiency, Mrs. Ellison said she would feel like an accomplice in case anything happened to him while engaged in their purely selfish business. For Tom was not stopping there to enter into any such onery traffic as selling bones on his own account, she knew, but out of his generous desire to give two lone women a hand.

To this Tom made denial with a show of injury. His motives were entirely selfish, he declared; and as far as being a mere accessory to the bone business, he was going to be the prime mover. He was going to assume entire responsibility for it, and the sole management, from that moment, so that nobody could feel answerable for him. If there were risks on the road, they would be his risks; or rows, they would be his affairs, let them end as they might.

Eudora heard him with glowing cheeks and admiraation in her eyes, which was not dimly reflected in her mother's face. Mrs. Ellison shook her head and sighed, making a poor pretense of yielding against her judgment, proud to have a man around the place again who could

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 put his foot down and stand on it where he planted it.

"You'll have your way, Tom Simpson," she said, shaking her head more in proud approval than distant censure of his determination.

Fear seemed to be a weak and unfounded thing in the force of this young stranger's masterful way, and if Mrs. Ellison's heart was quickened by the hope that her fortune might, indeed, rise again from its bones, it was not the only heart that was going fast, and leaping hurdles of time and trouble, beside the big table in the Block E ranch-house that October night.

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38 very tangible assistance to the British Government. He died in 1858 A.D. and was succeeded by his son, Nawab Bahawal Khan IV, who died in 1866 A.D. after a very short rule.

His son, Nawab Sadiq Mahommed Khan IV, being only four years old, a British Agency was established during his minority, for the administration of the State.

In 1879 A.D. Nawab Sadiq Mahommed Khan IV was invested with full powers of a Ruling Chief. He rendered important services in the Kabul War of 1879 A.D, in recognition of which, he was created G. C. S. I. on the 25th of January 1882, A.D. Nawab Sir Sadiq Mahommed Khan, after a very peaceful rule of about twenty years, died on the 14th February 1899 A.D. His eldest son, who was then 16 years of age and studying in the Chief's College at Lahore, came to the masnad as Nawab Mahommed Bahawal Khan V. He was invested with full powers by Lord Curzon in 1903 A.D., and in the same year, the State was added to the Phulkhian States Agency. During the short period of his reign, the late Nawab Mahommed Bahawal Khan V showed that he was an energetic and capable ruler; and his early death at Aden in February 1907 A.D., while returning from his pilgrimage to Mecca, was a heavy loss to the State. He was succeeded by his infant son, Nawab Sadiq Mahommed Khan V, who was born in 1904 A.D.

The administration of the State during the minority is being carried on by a Council of Regency, at present consisting of Haji Maulavi Rahim Baksh C.I.E. as President, and Diwan Asa Nand, General Mahommed Abdul Rahman, and Khan Bahadur Mirza Sultan Ahmedkhan. as Members.

The Imperial Service forces of the State consist, at present, of 169 cavalry and a camel transport corps of 344 men and 1,144 camels.

The total area of the State is 17,825 square miles, with a population 7,20,877 according to the Census of 1901 A.D., and a revenue of about Rs.34,00,000.

The Nawab of Bahawalpur ranks second among the Chiefs of the Punjab. He is entitled to a salute of 19 guns.

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There was plenty to do in a preliminary way making ready for the big business of carrying the Block E bones, and the bones of the unknown unfortunates mingled with them, to market. Simpson was at it early next morning, trying out a team which he had selected from the most likely looking horses in the ranch pasture.

One of these animals bore harness marks, but the other's shoulders were smooth and uncalloused. Simpson, like most saddle-broke men, was not so much of a charioteer. He put on a lively show with that team. The horse that had worn harness appeared either to have forgotten about it or to hold an indignant recollection. It stood passively enough until Simpson got the tugs hooked up, when it took a notion to demonstrate to its companion how a free-minded horse ought to assert himself in the retention of his independent state.

Although not as practiced behind a horse as on top of one, Simpson had determination, courage, strength, a steady, calculative eye and a quick hand. He missed most of the obstacles in the barnyard and vicinity which might have been a bit harsh in collision with a big wagon, although he tore up several posts and wound considerable barbed wire around the hubs.

He had an appreciative pair of spectators, who saw nothing but the comic side of the adventure as long as

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 Tom kept the grunting, bucking, side-swiping team clear of the picket fence and the house. But when the fractious rascals swerved out of hand and took a rod of the fence, the wagon almost grazing the porch, Mrs. Ellison concluded it was time to interfere.

"Take 'em out of here!" she ordered peremptorily, with more authority than reason, shaking her apron at the team to shoo it off.

Simpson was riding limber-legged in the swaying wagon, keeping his feet admirably over fallen fence-posts and horned skulls which had tumbled down from Eudora's mound. He guided the team in a more or less definite circuit of the large space between barn, corral, house and front fence, but he couldn't seem to hit the gate leading out into the road and the wide-open places where a high-minded horse might go till he hit the horizon in his protest against servitude beside a wagon tongue.

Tom was going around that limited enclosure so fast, his attention was so closely set on the work in hand, that he did not notice the arrival of a rider who had pulled up his horse and sat watching the lively proceedings with interest. This man had come up the road from the south, leading two horses, one of which carried his pack. He appeared to be a leisurely going man, in no haste to get wherever he was headed for, slouching limber-backed and restful, one hand on his saddle-horn, as he halted to watch the show.

Whether it was because the leader in that horse rebellion spied these strangers of his own species, or whether he took it into his head to go out where he might

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 dump his oppressor into some prairie wash, only a horse psychologist would be qualified to tell. Certainly not Tom Simpson, who was altogether unprepared for the straightaway dash the team made for the gate. He did the best he could to center the wagon in that gateway, which was a broad one as gateways go, but perilously narrow in Simpson's eyes that moment of fast-flying things.

The near hind hub caught the gatepost, which was a very competent post, and deeply set. It stood almost as firmly as the original oak from which it was hewn, and the wrench of the sudden stop sent Simpson flying over the high dashboard. He came down in the road with more celerity than grace, landing within touch of the rebel who had asserted himself in one burst of defiance and now appeared quite satisfied to let matters hang on the gatepost, a wise enough conclusion, seeing that he was hopelessly stalled.

Mrs. Ellison and Eudora came running. The wagon was slewed across the gate, blocking both their passage and their view of Simpson in his embarrassment. Eudora jumped into the wagon and grabbed the lines, but the stranger on horseback had taken safety measures ahead of her by riding in front of the team.

Simpson got up, feeling somewhat clouded, for it had been a hard flop. He had a notion that his nose was bleeding, which is a common delusion after a lung-collapsing jolt, and that he looked confoundedly silly in the eyes of the women, whom he expected to hear break out in unconfined mirth presently, after the custom of male and female of the species on the range. Then he remembered that these women were different. They would not

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 laugh at seeing a chap take a spill like that. Eudora was leaning out of the wagon, a hand on the dashboard, alarm in every feature, ready to jump down.

"Are you hurt, Tom?" she inquired anxiously.

"Are you hurt, Tom?" her mother chimed after her, tiptoeing to see him over the high wagon-bed.

"I ought to be," Tom replied in scorn of his bungling. "It's not due to any special amount of brains that I'm not. No, thank you, not a bit."

The women were hearty in their gratitude for his escape from a situation that had presented more perils to the onlookers than the participant, and the man on horseback, of whom Tom had been conscious in a confused way since hitting the ground, looked down with an expression of sympathy. He twisted his head in solemn appreciation of the lucky escape.

"If your hub 'd 'a' been three inches shorter you'd 'a' missed it clean," the stranger said.

This was such a generous, humane, altogether ridiculous way of excusing his wild driving that Simpson felt at once a friendliness for the stranger. He nodded ruefully, pretty much ashamed of himself.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" Eudora pressed the question. To make sure his denial was not a deceit, she hopped down and felt him over, head and shoulders, that being the way he had struck.

"I ought to be if I can't do any better than that," he said.

Mrs. Ellison talked over the fence, saying she suspicioned that horse on account of the way he squatted when Tom threw the harness on him, and cautioning

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 them to watch out, he might take another spell of devilment any minute. The stranger assured her. He was squared off in front of the team, which appeared to be satisfied, no more rebellion in it than a little snorting and shying would relieve.

The stranger said now was the time to take them, while they were hot, and run the livers out of them. They'd remember it, they'd know who was boss from that time forward, but if they were allowed to stand and cool off they'd entertain doubts which would break out in a flareup again. He offered his services, saying he'd had a little experience breaking horses. Tom was not inclined to have the team acknowledge mastery to any hand but his own, more boyishly stubborn than manly reasonable, considering that it was his first attempt and a lesson would be in order.

Eudora endorsed the stranger's proposal strongly, not wanting to see Tom take another spill. She suggested that Tom go along, and it was so arranged. The stranger hooked his bridle reins over the gatepost and took the lines, Tom standing in the wagon beside him to get the fine points, granting the stranger had any to give.

He had them, and plenty. He could have turned that team and wagon on a fifty-cent piece; he could have driven the outfit through a croquet wicket and never scraped a tug. Tom Simpson knew he had met a master of his craft, and was humble in his presence.

The stranger talked all the time while he drove, although he didn't seem to be saying much. He was a tall fellow, almost as tall as Wade Harrison, very bony and flat, wide in the shoulders like a man in an Egyptian

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 sculpture, and narrow in the waist on the same order of art. He had a large bony nose with a down-curve at the end of it like a horse: his face was long and narrow, his cheeks and chin bluish-black with the stubble of a splendid stand of whiskers which had been mown that morning. He was cleanly dressed in the common cowboy garb, and seemed to be of a happy disposition in spite of the glum look his thinness, and dark, irrepressible stubble gave him.

He drove the team until it was a lather of sweat at every point where tug and backband touched. Then he said he guessed they'd got their dose, but it would be a good thing if they had a load behind them and a good long hill in front. Tom said he was projecting an expedition afield for bones. If the driver thought bones would answer, they could go over to the river where, he had been told, there were plenty. Bones would be admirable, the stranger declared with enthusiasm.

There were more bones along the willow fringe of that little stream than Simpson had allowed his most extravagant fancy to compute. He had supposed a few hundred cattle, at the most, had perished there, and those stretched out over a long thin line. Here lay not hundreds alone, but thousands, of skeletons, some of them still held together by dry integument. There, against the frail barrier of willows and cottonwoods the starving herds had lodged, eaten the willows and other small shrubs to the snow, and died.

The stranger stood in the wagon and looked over the desolate scene, amazement in his face, incredulity in his eyes. The grass was lush there, where no creature had

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 grazed since the great tragedy; it stood tall among the bones, it grew rank through the ribs that unkind nature had served to the buzzards on the platter of that vast, green plain.

"Well, gee-mo-nee cripes!" the stranger said. "What killed 'em? when did it happen?"

Simpson repeated the story of the great winter kill as it had been told him by Mrs. Ellison.

"Gee-mo-nee! You could 'a' walked on 'em for miles," the stranger marvelled. "I've been through winter kills in Montany, but I never saw one that took 'em that thick. They're dead—they're all dead—ever' damn one of 'em's dead!"

It was obviously so, too plainly true to require any such tragically surprised comment as that, Simpson believed. But he hadn't got the trend of the man's thought, as his next words revealed.

"They ain't got a head left alive on the place! That's why I never run acrost no cows when I struck this neighborhood."

"You're right. Ellison saved a few hundred head, lost his life doing it, but his wife and daughter sold them. They're not in business now."

"Bones!" said the stranger, turning to look over the wreckage that nature, in its kindlier mood, was laboring now to hide. "Cripes! Look at the bones!"

"There'll be no trouble getting a load, anyhow," Tom said, scarcely less astonished than his unknown helper.

"No, nor a few hundred loads, from the looks of 'em. What do you aim to do with them bones?"

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 Tom explained. The stranger was surprised that anybody would want to buy bones, but said he guessed there was no accounting for tastes. He pitched into the loading with energy, and soon they had the wagon heaped with enough, as the stranger said, to make a considerable number of razor and corn-knife handles. Tom said he didn't suppose many of them would be put to that purpose, considering the time they'd been lying out in the sun and weather. It was a new marvel to the stranger to learn that bones were used to enrich land. He said it was comforting to know that; some good might come of him, after all, at least what was left of him when the buzzards got through, from which Tom gathered that he did not expect to lie down for his final rest under the sod, but on top of it.

"From what you said about the women sellin' off, I reckon you married into the fam'ly since the winter kill?"

"I'm not married into the family," Tom corrected him coldly.

"Oh, you ain't?" said the horse-breaker, turning his head with a sharp, inquiring, interested movement, not in the least taken down by Tom's cool retort.

"Not at all."

"You could do worse," the stranger declared with conviction. "I thought that young lady was your wife. She sounded like a man's wife ort-a sound when she ast you if you was hurt."

"Yes, a man could do worse—a great deal worse," Tom agreed, considerably warmer in his manner.

"Related?"

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 ARISTOTLE'S CRITICISM OF THE ELEATICS. Parmenides, venerable and aweful, as in Homeric language he may be called; him I should be ashamed to approach in a spirit unworthy of him " 42. It follows that Plato must have taken trouble to at least under. stand the man whom he so much reverenced, and that therefore, his testimony may be regarded as having a peculiar value. According to Plato, Parmenides is the father of Ontologism. He tells us in the Sophist that Parmenides regarded Not-Being as unspeakable, incon- ceivable, irrational, meaning thereby that in order to exist, anything must be thought, conceived, and reasoned about ¹3, a statement which agrees so well with the assertion of Parmenides himself that the path of Not-Being must be regarded as unspeakble and unthinkable ", and must therefore be severely left aside, as it is not the path of truth :-

κέκριται δ᾽ οὖν ὥσπερ ἀνάγκη, την μὲν ἐᾶν ἀνόητον, ἀνώνυμον, οὐ γὰρ ἀληθὴς ἐστὶν ὁδός.

It is very unfortunate that Prof. Burnet does not see that the identical meaning which he finds in the two questions-Is it or is it not, and Can it be thought or not, "5-lays the axe at the root of his materialistic inter-, pretation, and supports the ontological meaning which Plato and Aristotle find in Parmenides. Aristotle very clearly recognises the conceptual character of Parmenides' philosophy. In his Physics, for example, Aristotle definitely lays down that the Parmenidean doctrine refers to concepts, and hence a discussion of

42. Plato, Theaetetus, 183 E. (Jowett's translation). 43. Plato, Sophist 238 C. 44. Parmenides' Poem II. 72-74. 45. Burnet, Thales to Plato, p. 67.,

authors: सुबोध कुलकर्णी


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 "Not even distantly. I'm almost a stranger to them; I've known them only a short time."

"I didn't git a chance to mention it to the ladies, but maybe you can tell me: has there been a feller goin' under the name of Simpson been along here the last day or two?"

"I never have gone under any other name," Tom replied stiffly.

"The hell you say!" said the horse-breaker.

He turned his head in that listening, sharp, chickenlike way and looked at Tom with the queerest sort of grin that ever distorted human features. Instead of opening his lips, or spreading his face as a grin usually spreads out the countenance of a man, this horse-breaker's smile worked the other way. He closed his mouth, half-shut his eyes, pursed his features in a way to gather the main portion of them around his nose, and looked very much as if about to cry. Then, sudden as a explosion, the whole thing changed, his face lit up with amazing animation, he threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter that made the horses jump.

Tom regarded this amazing conduct with stiff neck and high chin. It was the first time in his experience that his commonplace name had evoked such an outburst of mirth. It passed; the fellow's features gathered again in that lugubrious expression that seemed a certain forecast of tears.

"You're the feller the horse run off with and carried around that full of money all night and didn't know it. Coburn was a sold man when he got that money back; he was a—sold—man!"

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 Comment seeming unnecessary, Tom didn't attempt any. He rode along on the load of bones, his seat being a masculine skull with particularly broad forehead, wondering who the fellow could be and what he was about.

"Well, Simpson, I come by to git my saddle," the stranger said, repressing both laughter and tears, coming back to normal state as he spoke.

"What saddle?"

"The one you borryed from Sid Coburn with a gun. You don't suppose Sid Coburn'd hand over a saddle of his own under them circumstances if he could lay hands on somebody else's, do you?"

"From the little I know of him I'd say he wouldn't. But how come your saddle? Do you belong to that outfit?"

"No, I'm on the drift. Wel-l-l, I did belong over there, but Sid fired me. I was up in Kansas City with him. I missed the train."

"Oh," said Tom, very much enlightened, his manner almost eager in its sudden change of friendliness. "I rode down in your place, then. You must be Waco Johnson?"

"I'm the rep-tile," Waco admitted, beginning to fix his face in that alarming smile again.

Tom offered his hand, to be met more than half way by Waco Johnson's broad paw, heartily and honestly, as a man without eyes would have known at the first grip.

"I'm glad to know you—I'm dev'lish glad to know you," Tom said. "I liked your name the first time I heard it."

Waco shook his head, as if to say it wouldn't do to go too far on names, unstable things that they were.

"You can have it," he said. "It never brought me no luck."

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That was the way the bone company came to enlarge its membership, even though its capital was not increased to any appreciable degree. Waco Johnson was out of a job, the world before him and nowhere to go. He said he'd like to help—he pronounced it h'ep—around the place a while, breaking in some horses for the work, leaving them to pay him what they thought he was worth. This proposal he made to Simpson while they were unloading the bones.

Tom said an expert horse-breaker was needed around that place more than anybody else but, speaking for the bone company, nobody had any spare cash to hand out for such services, or any other. Well, said Waco, money was no object to him, anyway; somebody always got it away from him before it had time to get warm in his pocket. The more men to haul bones the more money they would make. Take him in on some kind of a split. He'd leave it to them.

Although Tom had elected himself general manager of the bone firm, he demurred about admitting another member on any kind of terms without consulting Eudora and her mother, Eudora especially. He told Waco he'd consider it if he cared to hang around the rest of the day. That place suited him as well, if not better, than any, Waco said. Meanwhile, they'd might as well make it

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 plain to that team who was boss. Accordingly they went after more bones.

Waco bent his long back to the work as readily as if he already had a large share or stock in the concern. While he worked he sang, not continually, but by unexpected bursts, and this was his unvarying song:

Certainly, Simpson could not tell him, although he soon wished fervently for somebody to come along who could, and put a rest to Waco's doleful melody. But Waco was a genial cuss, for all his limited repertory, radiating a feeling of cheerfulness and honest fellowship that was a pleasure to share. Tom felt as if he had known him for years instead of hours, for he was transparent as a clean windowpane, a typical cowboy whose home was, indeed, wherever che hung up his hat.

Waco was not particularly young, although of that tenuous dry type that never grows old. About forty, Tom judged, with what history of roving and adventuring in the rough life of herdsman nobody but himself could tell. If he was for a man, he was all for him; if against him, he'd stay that way until one or the other of them lay on his cooling-board.

Tom took up Waco's proposal with Eudora and her mother after the noonday meal, Waco modestly retiring to the barn to look over the material for the further exercise of his art. Mrs. Ellison, who did not see any great future to the bone business, said it was only fair to divide such proceeds as might arise out of it in three, a

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 share each to the two men, who would do the work, a share between Eudora and herself, who would supply the wagons and teams.

That was too generous, Tom said. Neither he nor Waco had anything to lose, nothing to venture but their time, and the time of an unemployed man was worth no more on the range than elsewhere. Make it fifty-fifty, he proposed, on the condition that Eudora turn all the work over to them and stand clear.

Eudora was indignant over this proposed elimination of herself, although she colored up like an autumn apple when she recalled the garb Tom had seen her in when he first rode up to the gate. She was as good as any man at bones, she declared, and if she didn't keep an eye on them along the river the homesteaders would haul all of them away.

All right, said Tom; that would be her job, then. Ride out and around as often as she liked and keep an eye on the bones, but keep her hands off them. The work was too rough and heavy for a girl.

Mrs. Ellison applauded Tom's apportionment of duties.

"I've always been against her straddlin' around in man's pants," she said. "You know what even them scoundrelly horsethieves thought of you the other morning. If you'd been dressed like a young lady ought to have been dressed, your modesty'd 'a' been spared."

"I don't care what any man thinks of me, horsethief or no horsethief!" Eudora blustered, but the deep red of her cheeks, her averted eyes, all betrayed her in the sight of at least one man whose opinion she valued.

"There was a glimmer of mirth in Tom Simpson's know-

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 ing eyes. He shook his head solemnly, as if deploring the defiance of irresponsible girlhood. Eudora gave him a push, with a little snort of a laugh at his solemn teasing.

"Oh, you shut up!" she said, although Tom had not opened his close-latched and apparently most dignified mouth.

"If you want something to do you can cook for Tom and Waco," Mrs. Ellison told her hot-cheeked, red daughter. "That'll be more becoming to a girl than straddlin' around"

"Can't you think of any other word, mother?" Eudora asked pettishly. "It's not so very elegant, to say the least."

"It's as elegant as the doin's it describes. You can cook for the boys; that'll be"

"Well, then, I will cook for them."

"Not at all," said Tom, with the voice of high authority. "Delightful as it would be, I can't permit it."

"You can't permit it!" Eudora fairly gasped, facing him with genuine rebellion in her eyes. "Well, I like your nerve!"

"Just so," said Tom, inflexibly, calmly. "Pleasant as it is, delightful as it would be, Mr. Johnson and I can't continue living at your expense, madam. That isn't part of the bargain, you know. Mr. Johnson and I will provision ourselves, cook for ourselves, and make our quarters in the bunk-house when not on the road. You are both very-very kind."

"You'd just as well let her cook for you, Tom," Mrs. Ellison said persuasively. "Shell have to cook for some man, sooner or later."

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 Sufficient unto the day, said Tom.

He looked at the flushed, pouting, half angry Eudora, a slow smile breaking up the solemnity of his face. It was like a caress to ease the hurt of necessary chastisement.

"It'll be some noble cookin' you'll do!" Eudora scoffed, but nothing in her way of saying it rough enough to take off any skin. She gave Tom a sidelong, humorous look, her mouth pursed in a little pout that was nothing more than the puckering string around a laugh.

"Noble's the word," he said cheerfully.

"I'll bet you could knock a mule down with one of your biscuits."

"Strong meat for strong men," said he.

"But you boys haven't got any supplies, Tom," Mrs. Ellison protested.

"I'll be going to town to-morrow morning, very early, to send a telegram to that gentleman who is to buy our goods," Tom told her. "I'll carry out certain food"

"Food!" Eudora repeated, the humor of the situation further provoked by that unusual word.

"Chuck, perhaps, would be a better word," Tom amended, making a pretense of bowing gravely to her superior knowledge.

"Much better," said she.

"I'll bring out enough chuck to hold us nicely till we make the first trip with the wagons. After that we'll be in the hunky dory."

"In the what?" Eudora asked, suppressing an outburst with difficulty.

"Just so," said Tom, with the equanimity of one who knew his buttons.

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 "But you don't get in a hunky-dory, simple!"

"No?" said Tom, in a manner of challenge to simplicity. "Why not?"

"Well, I don't know what a hunky-dory is, only that it's a—it's a—a state of affairs, not something you get into."

"Wrong, my lady. A dory is a nice little boat, and one gets into a nice little boat, doesn't one?"

"Generally two. But that don't account for the hunky. Nobody ever gets into a hunky, alone or with somebody. I don't know what it is—it don't go alone that way, Tom. You say it hunky-hyphen-dory. It's all one thing, and it's a state of affairs, a pleasant state of affairs, not something you get into for a ride, dunce!"

"I fancy a hunky is something nice and comfortable, anyhow, and that amounts to the same thing. But it's like that other word you objected to, that word straddling, you know. Not so very elegant, when it comes to that."

The women had their laugh at Tom's serious way of humor, which seemed ponderous compared to the sharp quips they were accustomed to. Tom stood by as solemn as a priest, but with that gleam of lively appreciation in his eyes which lit up his sacerdotal countenance like firelight upon a wall. Waco Johnson was standing around the corral gate in the way of a man who waited the verdict of a jury. Tom went out to tell him he had been admitted to the bone company without bond.

Tom was on the road next morning after an early breakfast. He had explained to Waco that retaliatory measures were to be expected from the Wade Harrison gang, and left that worthy gentleman armed and hopeful. Waco was harnessing up a fresh pair of horses, neither

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 of which ever had felt harness on its back before. From the way he went about it Tom knew there would be no fence knocked down that morning, no wagon hung up on the mighty gatepost. If there ever lived a master of his craft, Waco Johnson was that man. He went about his job so serenely, so cheerfully, and with such sublime confidence, that the raw team was conquered before the belly-band was buckled.

It was well past noon when Tom reached Drumwell, the rifle that he had used with such good effect against Wade Harrison in a scabbard under his leg, the revolver that had supplemented it in the fight strapped on him in regulation style. He had said nothing at the ranch about possible trouble awaiting him in town. He hoped, on his arrival, to pass unnoticed, or at least unrecognized by the marshal or any of those who had seen him in Kane's place on the night of his arrival at the border.

Another row with the marshal at that stage of his business development would be most undesirable. It might even amount to his forced retirement from the enterprise. He believed his chances of escaping notice were good, as he had changed his garb completely. Mrs. Ellison had assembled a cowboy outfit even to boots, which fitted him nicely, out of the accumulation of raiment around the place. He rode into Drumwell a changed man, as far as outward covering went, with chaparejos to his legs, spurs to his heels, a broad-brimmed sombrero that Ellison himself had worn. He carried the costume as one who had a right to all that it signified, which was in every sense true.

That was a lucky day for Tom Simpson to come to Drumwell. There were three cow outfits in town, one of

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 them loading, the others holding their herds on the range near at hand waiting their turn at the pens, most of the men at liberty to amuse themselves in their most favored way.

There was much activity, much dust, a constant riding through the short street, a constant shifting of men and horses here and there. Tom had carried no feed, there being precious little of anything in that line on the Ellison place but hay. He put the horse in the livery stable for a feed of oats, sent his telegram to the Kansas City hide man and waited around the station for a reply.

Meantime he talked with the station agent about bones. The lumber dealer was the bone buyer in Drumwell, his business being brisk. How would a competitor's bones fare, Tom wanted to know, piled around there near the sidetrack until a carload could be assembled? The agent didn't know; it never had been attempted. He advised selling to the lumber dealer, although railroad property was pretty well respected there, and bones piled on the company's right of way might be perfectly safe. He would undertake to keep an eye on them during the day, but couldn't answer for what might happen at night.

All of which was in line with what Tom had been thinking as he rode to town that morning. He wondered if it wouldn't be just as well to let the whole thing slide, go on his way and forget it. There wouldn't be anything in hauling bones that long distance at five dollars a ton, the lumberman's price. It would require several trips to transport a carload, even with two wagons in train to each of them, as he and Waco had worked out their plan. Here in Drumwell the business did not appear half so promising

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 40 PHILOSOPHICAL AND OTHER ESSAYS that doctrine would be beyond the scope of physics: proper". This very definite statement from the fore-- most scientific philosopher of ancient times is a clear indication of the fact that Parmenides' philosophy has. only a conceptual or ontological meaning, and not a. naturalistic or materialistic one. Then again, in explaining the nature of unity and plurality from the standpoint of Parmenides, Aristotle lays down that: Parmenides regarded the world as a rational unity, while the plurality that one meets with in the world is to be regarded as merely sensible, and therefore, as only apparent: "of necessity he thinks that Being is one, and that there is nothing else......and being compelled to account for phenomena, he assumes that things are one from the standpoint of reason, and many from the standpoint of sense." 47 The only meaning that we could assign to this statement about Parmenides is that according to him the essential nature of the world is to be regarded as rational, conceptual, ontological, which allows no scope for ultimate mate- rialistic existence. There is no alternative except to find in Parmenides' identification of Thought and Being a vision of the later ontological argument, which has exercised a potent influence on the whole course of thought. We definitely agree with Prof. A. C. Fraser when he says that the later ontological argument was itself anticipated in the τὸ αὐτὸ νοεῖν τε καὶ εἶναι attributed to Parmenides.48

10. Parmenides and Shankaracharya.-It is very significant that Herr Garbe, following a suggestion, 46. Arist. Phys. i cc. 2 f. ( Vide Adamson p. 34 also). 47. Arist. Meta. i. 5. 986 b 32. 48. Fraser, Philosophy of Theism, p. 223.

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 of profits as it did at the Ellison ranch, under the influence of Eudora's sparkling enthusiasm, the crop sown by the great winter kill ready for its melancholy harvesting.

It was late in the evening, the sun had gone down red in the dust of trampling herds and horses, when the answer from the hide man came. At once the bone business loomed up with new importance, its possibilities far in excess of Tom's, even Eudora's, most extravagant hopes. The bone market was active as never before; the Kansas City dealer was enthusiastic in this prospect of a new source of supply and quoted a price far in excess of that current in Drumwell. Send all he could get, and as fast as possible, the hide man urged.

This was news to cheer a doubting, despondent man, indeed. Tom stepped high as he made for a restaurant, feeling that he could afford a good supper with such prospects ahead of him. After enfolding a large tough steak, with the canned corn and tomatoes which invariably accompanied it in Drumwell and other towns of its type, Tom made his purchases of supplies out of the joint fund subscribed for that purpose by Waco and himself that morning.

While his outlay was not large, the sack behind the saddle increased the horse's burden considerably. But the animal had been well rested and regaled; it would have set out on an eager canter on the homeward road if Tom had not held it back. Better to be all night on the road and have a fit horse under him at the end, than gain an hour or two in the going. Riding a strange road in an unfamiliar land a man never knew when he'd need all there was in a horse.

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 He had come and gone without a glimpse of the marshal. If anybody had recognized him it hadn't caused a ripple in the town. He had not gone to Kane's resort, that being the kind of place he did not much frequent out of choice. Whether there were gun-slingers hanging around there to even Eddie Kane's score he did not know. Certainly he did not care greatly as he rode through the clear moonless night.

Tom was thinking and planning very much like any ordinary, healthy young man as he rode. He welcomed this turn of affairs that took him away from cow-camps and the rough adventures of that life. He had followed it for seven years almost without a break, not considering the job as mine guard in Colorado, his last employment before staking his savings on the real estate checkerboard in Kansas City. Like Waco Johnson's name, the pursuit of a cowboy's life never had brought him any luck. It was time, and good time, to make a change.

Perhaps fortune changed, as a man's body is said to change, every seven years. If so, the time was up for a revolution in his affairs. It looked promising. Tom roughly estimated how many cattle had perished along that little river running through the Ellison estate, during the winter kill, basing his calculations on what he had seen and what Mrs. Ellison had told him. He figured how many tons of bones lay waiting to his and Waco Johnson's hands, allowing so much weight to each of the skeletal remains. From the result he believed he and Waco could at least treble the ordinary cowboy wages between then and spring. If things came along well, they might even buy

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 bones from the homesteaders, enlarging their business to considerable importance.

They'd forget that little squabble in Drumwell very soon, probably had forgotten it already. The farther he rode away from Drumwell that night the more remote the likelihood of that incident being revived to disturb his business activities appeared. He had such a great feeling of elation, of satisfaction, of desire to push ahead with the new enterprise which seemed to offer so much, that his imagination was coursing up and down that long prairie road as if reviewing the past instead of projecting into the future.

There was a home-feeling about that country for him; an invitation in its untried possibilities, it seemed, to match his youth and strength against it and make his place. Queer thing how the turn of a man's life hinged on chance, sometimes. If there never had been that mixup in horses at the livery stable door; if he never had galloped off with Coburn's money, Coburn's bullets—which he had thought were the marshal's, so dev'lish difficult to identify bullets under such conditions—singing about his ears, there never would have been any Eudora Ellison in the scheme, and no bones.

Tom had left home mainly on account of an aversion to hides apart from living creatures that rightfully wore them. Hides had been the foundation of the family fortunes over there; bones were to be the foundation of his own separate and independent fortune here. So there it was; all out of a cow, take it or leave it, as one liked.

Why did Eudora have her hair cut short that way? he wondered, turning from fortune to Eudora as readily

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 as if one were the concomitant of the other. Had she got cockleburs in it, or had she been sick with a depilating fever? Perhaps neither. Very likely, independent and precedent-setting young lady that she was, she had cut it off because, like trousers and boots, it was easier to get around with when she worked about the place.

One would think that girls on cow-ranches would cut off their hair right along, considering the riding and wild-flying tresses he had seen. But not so: in all his experience with girls of cow-ranches he could recall but one other who wore her hair short like Eudora Ellison. That was black curly hair, also, but the wearer of it was not slim and shapely. Rather squat and thick-ankled, like a squaw. Johnson was her name—strange if she should turn out to be Waco's sister, which was improbable, considering that she had no brother—Fanny Johnson, called Buffalo for reasons unknown. Away up on the muddy North Platte in Wyoming; the dingy, low-banked, thick-running, swirling, roiling, unlovely, melancholy North Platte.

They had gone in for sheep later, the Johnsons. Buffalo was living in a sheep wagon the last time he saw her. He had been following a bunch of stolen cattle, the trail leading to the river, and the end of those beeves as far as he ever knew.

In that way of past mingling with present and future, Tom rode on with his comfortable thoughts, serene, happy. He had a feeling that he was coming into peaceful waters after a rough voyage, his long watches and hard riding at an end. He could see no farther into a wall, to be certain, than the last man to ride that road ahead of him, or the next one following behind.

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Tom wondered why they were up so early at the ranch. It was about half past three when he came in sight of the house, with dawn yet two hours off, but there was light in the kitchen, the movement of somebody evident within. He felt a crinkling of anxiety, a creeping of foreboding. Eudora, he dreaded, had met with an accident. That was the first leap of his thought—to Eudora. The first kindling of his concern was for her, as a man thinks of his money and his precious things when he finds the tracks of vandals at his door.

With the scent of home in his nostrils the horse had gone ahead eagerly the last several miles. Now Tom urged it to greater effort, the sense of something wrong about the place coming out to him on the beam of that lonely light. This early rising could not be on his account, this watch could not be for him. He had not set any time for his return; they hardly would expect him back before the evening of the day just then on the distant verge of dawn.

Mrs. Ellison heard him ride in; she met him at the door with the disturbing news. Wade Harrison's gang had raided the place. They had come looking for him, slipping in so stealthily that old Shep, the shaggy, indolent household dog, had not even barked.

"Where's Eudora?" Tom inquired, his voice small in

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 the great fear that made his legs feel numb under his weight.

"She's gone after the doctor and"

"Doctor for whom?"

"Waco. They shot him. He did the best he could, poor man"

"Is he badly hurt?"

"In two places: one through the leg, one on the top of his head where they hit him. He didn't have a chance to more than grab his gun, they sneaked in so still. But they didn't know it was Waco till after they shot him, and that let him off with his life. They were lookin' for you."

"Where is he?"

"In by the stove. He'd bled so much, he was so cold"

She left him to guess what her fearful conclusions in Waco's case had been, opening the door softly for him to enter.

Waco was lying unconscious on a canvas cot near the kitchen stove. There were bandages and a bottle on a chair, a strong smell of turpentine in the room, that being the pioneer's invariable first remedy in the treatment of all kinds of wounds. He looked pretty far gone to Tom, who bent over him and felt for his heart. There was a spark of life in Waco, but it was very low.

They withdrew a little from the wounded man while Mrs. Ellison recounted the story of the vengeful visitation. She was more downcast and sorrowful over Waco's condition than her own loss, which had been considerable.

The thieves had driven off all the horses which Waco had assembled in the corral, eight or ten head, she was not

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 certain of the number. At the sound of shooting she and Eudora had thrown on a few garments and run out of the house, expecting the raiders to come looking for them next. She had taken a gun away from Eudora and thrown it in the weeds, fearful of a more wanton retaliation if the scoundrels should suffer any damage, or even resistance from the house.

Eudora had snatched the ax and run to the barn, where she stood on defense of her horse Frank. But they had not gone to the barn, no doubt knowing that Frank was so securely barred and locked in it that he could not have been stolen without tearing out the side of the building.

Mrs. Ellison said she had returned to the kitchen immediately after Eudora ran to the barn, thinking to draw their attention from the girl, in case any of them had seen her flit past, by making a light in the house. After shooting Waco, and cursing loudly when they discovered their mistake, they came storming to the house, inquiring for Simpson. They had not taken her word when told he had gone to Drumwell. They searched the house, hauling the bedding around, trampling and swearing, but had not taken anything so far as she knew. They seemed flighty and nervous, and in a hurry. Wade Harrison was not along, but she recognized at least two of the men who were with him on the first raid.

Tom went to the door. It was still dark, too dark to find the horses in the pasture, if any had been left. He bent over Waco again, wondering how the two women had been able to carry him to the kitchen, not so much on account of his burden as his shocking state.

"He's not the first shot-up man I've helped carry into

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 this house," Mrs. Ellison said when Tom expressed his admiration for their bravery, "but I hope to heaven he'll be the last."

"When did it happen?" Tom inquired, not remembering whether he had asked the same question before.

"Along about midnight, maybe a little after."

"Has Eudora been gone long?"

"An hour or more."

"She went to Indian Rock, of course?" Tom turned to the door as he spoke, to look anxiously out into the dark.

"It's fifteen miles nearer than Drumwell," Mrs. Ellison said. "I wouldn't let her start till I saw there wasn't anything I could do to bring Waco to, and then I wouldn't let her leave till I was sure them thieves was cleared out and gone. I wanted her to wait till daylight, but she would go."

"Of course she'd go," Tom said gloomily.

"She'll bring Sheriff Treadwell back with her."

"It will be noon before she gets back," Tom speculated. He was standing in the door, more than half in the mind to mount his tired horse and strike out after Eudora, although she had been gone so long there was not the slightest chance of overtaking her.

"Yes, it will be about noon, the best she can do," Mrs. Ellison said.

They spoke in low, restrained tones, as people speak in a house where someone lies dead. And there was that feeling about the place to Tom Simpson of somebody gone, whose absence made him numb. It was a perilous thing Eudora had undertaken, that ride of twenty-five

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 miles through the night to Indian Rock, the county seat. This was not a railroad town, a village of small consequence aside from its being the seat of county government. The fact that it lay in exactly the opposite direction the raiders were likely to take gave Tom a little assurance. He was thinking of the route the raiders would take when he said:

"Sheriff Treadwell might as well try to catch the wind by the time he can take up their trail."

"Just about," she agreed. "If he'd only pin his badge inside of his vest and forget about it, and go down there in the Nation and clean up that gang!"

Mrs. Ellison spoke with deep feeling in the matter, but still in that subdued voice as if she feared she might disturb the feeble flame of Waco Johnson's life.

"I don't look for him to do it," she said. "The United States marshal down there's jealous of his authority, and he'd be as likely as not to set some of his half-breed Indian deputies on to kill the sheriff, or any other Kansas officer, that went down there after their robber friends. I guess Treadwell's wise enough when he keeps out of there, but it's hard on us folks that pay taxes for protection of the law and don't get it. We had more safety when there wasn't any law south of Wichita. No gang ever came up from the Nation and raided this ranch when our own men were the law, and all the law we needed."

"Just so," said Tom.

He was standing in the door, head up, chin lifted, as straight and stiff as a soldier on parade, peering out as if he saw something that had struck him motionless, not a

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 clew to his thought or intention in his thin, stern face.

"I must attend to the horse," he said, going out quickly.

Mrs. Ellison followed him to the door, a sudden feeling of dread leaping and falling like a transient flame in her heart, the awakening of old memories, the movement of old fears. She had gone to that threshold before to see determined men ride away on desperate enterprises from which they never returned, their lips closed in hard lines, as Tom Simpson's lips were closed when he peered out at the distant things no other eyes than his could see. She looked after him as he led the horse away, growing dim in the gloom, toward the corral. There was a movement of birds in the orchard trees; the eastern rim of the world was faintly gray with dawn.

Some horses had come up; Tom could see them looming enlarged out of their natural bulk in the thinning dark. Waco's horses he took them to be, a rather long-necked and scrawny breed. He did not know what others had been left by the thieves, although he believed there were no fewer than fifteen or twenty head of the Ellison stock on the place. He unsaddled the horse he had ridden, threw hay into the mangers and opened the gate to the animals outside, then carried his sack of supplies to the bunk-house.

Tom found a little lamp on the deal table, a chair beside it, Waco's boots near by. There was a pencil and piece of paper sack on the table, the paper scribbled over with figures. Waco, too, had been computing speculative profits in bones.

There was evidence of struggle around the bunk where Waco had slept. The blankets were on the floor, the hay

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 stuffed pillow kicked under the bunk. Waco's various possessions which he had carried in his roll were hanging on the wall: a slicker, a pair of trousers, a bright necktie and a black coat, an immense razor strop dangling below the garment like a beaver's tail. Waco's gun was not there. A dark blot on the floor near the bunk marked where he had fallen after they shot and clubbed him.

Tom piled the provisions on the table, making a quick selection of certain things, opening a package of this, taking a can of that, putting up rations sufficient for several days of flour, bacon, coffee, and the meagre essentials of life that a man may carry behind his saddle without adding materially to his horse's burden.

He looked around then for Waco's coffee pot and pan, finding them hanging under the slicker. With supplies and simple utensils stowed in the sack, Tom borowed Waco's slicker to protect it against rain, made a compact bundle of it all, then turned his attention to the three horses he had admitted to the corral.

They were Waco's horses, he knew, from their habit of herding together. They hadn't been around with the others long enough to get acquainted. One of them promised somewhat better than he had hoped, as the broadening day now revealed. It was a young animal, thin, as grass-fed and hard-ridden horses invariably are, but it had the lines of long wind and speed. He saddled it, tied his roll at the cantle, and went scouting around the bunk-house for ammunition.

The rifle and revolver which he had carried to Drumwell were, fortunately, of the same calibre. Eudora had told him they had belonged to her father. There was no

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 ammunition to be found in the bunk-house. Mrs. Ellison, to whom he was forced to appeal, found one box of fifty cartridges on a shelf in the kitchen, which she gave him, asking no questions. He returned to his horse without explanation, mounted and started on his way.

Mrs. Ellison was at the gate. She took hold of the bridle as he stopped beside her.

"Tom Simpson, where are you going?" she asked, the old dread that had moved again in her heart that tragic morning making her voice sound weary, as if she had come a long distance to meet him and question him at the gate.

"To scout around a little," he replied, trying to make his words come lightly, quickly, to give the impression that it was an expedition of slight importance.

"Don't go," she pleaded, looking up with such beseeching fear in her eyes that drew his hand with impetuous start as if to give her an assuring caress. "What are a few horses for you to put your life up for—you a stranger from another land? Don't you go. Let them have the horses—we can live down the loss, as we've lived down bigger ones."

"Just so," Tom replied abstractedly, his eyes studying the road where the hoofprints of the stolen horses told which way they had gone. "But because you are strong to bear misfortune is no reason why you shouldn't be spared it."

"Wait till Sheriff Treadwell comes, Tom. He'll be here by noon, if not before."

Tom was studying the tracks in the road, which were growing plainer as daylight increased. He read them for

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 peculiarities which would identify them if the trail were chopped by a crossing herd, leaning over from the saddle, peering intently. Mrs. Ellison let go the bridle, seeing something in his face which told her arguments and pleas would be of no avail. But caution was another thing.

"Don't cross over into the Nation alone, Tom. Wait down there for Sheriff Treadwell, and do whatever he says."

"Very well," Tom replied, but she knew he was only dimly conscious of what she said.

His faculties were concentrated on the tracks, two of them standing out from the others like italics in roman print. He could pick these up beyond a break in the trail, and be certain.

Mrs. Ellison did not make any further suggestions or requests. She saw that he had his marks, and was chafing to go. A glance had told her he was provisioned for a long scout; his manner of leaning and reading the tracks assured her of his experience. But what he expected to do, riding out alone in pursuit of that gang, she did not know. At the best he could only trail them to their headquarters, which no man had ever done and come back for help to wipe them out.

There was no hope in her words when she reached up to shake hands with him.

"Take care of yourself, Tom," she said, in that fatuous way of cautioning our well-beloved that all of us have been guilty of, when we knew as we spoke the words that it was advice thrown away. For he who rides to war and high adventure leaves his safety in the wild hands of chance.

Simpson took the trail with the determination to re-

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Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/170

 cover that stolen property. How it was to be accomplished did not trouble him at the start. What he should do and how he should do it must be determined by exigencies when he overtook the thieves. Mrs. Ellison had not been able to tell him how many men were riding the horsethief trail that night. Only two had come into the house, but she saw at least two or three more driving the stolen horses out.

As he passed the first homesteader's place, about three miles south of the Ellison ranch, Tom was hailed by an excited man who came running to the road to report that his four horses had been stolen. They had cleaned him out, not leaving him the hide nor hair of a horse on the place.

Tom scarcely more than paused to hear the frantic fellow's story. He told the hard-hit homesteader of the raid on Ellison's ranch as the shaggy, lean, wild-eyed man trotted along beside him. The sheriff had been notified; he would be along in due time. With such comfort as he could leave with the poor farmer in that assurance, Tom pushed on in a swinging gallop, following the raiders' trail.

Here the four horses stolen from the farmer had joined the main band; their coming had caused a flurry which was recorded in the ground, dusty now where it had been mud on the day of Tom's arrival. Not far along an old cattle trail cut the main road running north and south. This old trail led up from the southwest; cattle had been driven over it to Wichita and Wellington before the extension of the railroad to the Cherokee line. Here the horsethieves had turned off, heading for their refuge.

title: Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/170


text:
Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/171

 Tom had followed more than one trail of that kind in his day; he knew his chances of ever catching sight of a tail in that band of stolen horses was remote. The thieves had fully six hours' start on him; they would push through unsparing of man or beast until they had crossed the border, when they would slow up, perhaps split the herd into small bands to confuse trailers, reassembling them at fixed headquarters.

No matter for their tricks, he would stick to a trail bearing one or the other of those distinguishing hoofprints until he came to the end of it. Then there very likely would be something else to engage his wits.

A little way down this old cattle trail Tom encountered a man riding a little black mare without saddle or bridle, a noose of the neck-rope around her nose. He was bare-footed, bareheaded, dressed in overalls and shirt, a red-bearded stocky man with a red and rolling eye. He looked as if he had tumbled out of bed just as he was to ride wildly at the urge of some oppressing nightmare. He pulled up in the road ahead of Tom, waving his hand to stop him.

Robbed, he said; cleaned out by a band of horsethieves during the night. He had lost two horses, leaving him only the one he rode, which had been buckeyed last spring and never got over it and wasn't worth a damn. There's where they went with them horses—see the tracks? Right along there, headin' for the Nation, cuss their souls to that place where all good men and true consigned their enemies in that part of Kansas in those immoral days.

Tom paused to tell him his two horses were in good

title: Page:Cherokee Trails (1928).pdf/171