Found (Lewis)
ETCHINGS: FOUND[1]
Chuck! Crash! Rattle!
The Cinnabar mail comes swinging down the canyon. The six horses—wheel, swing, and lead—wear the air of thought common to old stagers. Only one passenger; a slender girl.
Very beautiful she has been in a happier time. To-day her sweet face is sorrow-bitten. In the wistful depths of her eyes one sees the look of hunger which comes when hope lies starving. Eight years and no word. The canyon seems the home of gloom. At long intervals some stout sunbeam writes its shifting signature on the floor. The stage labors and creaks over the shelvy rocks. The driver whistles as he fumbles his six reins. The trace-chains rattle and the straps strain as the horses surge in the six collars.
“Throw up your hands!”
Two faces appear in the bushes at the side—one unmasked and reckless. Their eyes are as bright and accurate as the cold barrels of the Winchesters along which they glance.
At the voice the girl gives a little startled cry of joy.
“Chrish—sh—sh—sh!”
The brake is set to the wheels by the foot of the driver and the coach stops. Without a word or look he clasps his hands above his head. He is old and wise. Drivers who fight or bear witness never live out half their days. Not so the two Wells-Fargo guards. They glide to the ground and open fire. The undaunted hold-ups are no whit behind.
“Bangity! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
The canyon is a cloud of smoke, through the deep folds of which flashes and leaps the incessant Winchester. Now the excited girl springs from the stage in the very course of the bullets. A half sob, and she crushes forward like a flower. The misguided lead of the reckless one has torn through her tender, faithful breast. The smoke still gathers and the bullets whiz. The sanguine rifles still speak cheerfully.
At last it is over—the outlaws win. A wind comes down from the sighing pines and drives away the smoke. It shows the reckless one gazing dumbly at the pulseless form of the girl.
“Alice!” he whispers, “Alice!” and bending gathers her to his breast and kisses her face, now white and cold as snow.
- ↑ A. H. Lewis (Dan Quin): For Short Stories
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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