Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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tor it was filled with the one, undying thought—revenge. Morn¬ ing, noon and night that one thought loomed before him like the hand-writing on the wall, and every day it grew more bitter. Revenge must be meted out by him upon the proud “Gilt Edge.” He would see it lying wrecked and shattered in the ditch and how he would laugh. Its beautiful furnishings would be de¬ molished, its proud conductor, Sterns, would be mangled, and all its passengers woul d lie dying. And he would laugh! Ah! his revenge would be sweet, sweet, sweet. At night he lay on his bunk and stared blinkingly out of that hateful barred window where he saw the gem-studded sky. In the twinkling of those jewels of night he read a mesage that seemed to bore into his very brain. Those flaming words seemed branded on his heart and at times would stifle that hateful spirit of revenge which consumed him. But he would scornfully thrust its influence aside and would say to himself, half aloud, that he was the victim of his own imagination. Yet struggle as he might, and hate as hard as he could, that old warning of the stars would come pushing its way unannounced and unwelcomed upon his thoughts. The day for which he had longed and waited had arrived. Into the bright sunlight of a Kansas June “Deadshot Bill” Bran- den strode a free man. The prison life had done its work, for he was no longer the defiant, fiery and energetic youth who had entered its iron gates. But though haggard and worn, there was a stubborn light in his tired eyes. The fires of revenge which had been smouldering for ten long years within his sodden brain now burst forth in all their early fierceness. Far to the South lay the rails of steel which grew hot twice each week beneath the whirling wheels of the “Gilt Edge” ex¬ press. And it was there Branden must go. The old warning of the stars burst upon his brain like a bombshell. “The wages of sin is death!” it rang in his ears. He hesitated, but only for a moment; the spirit of revenge overwhelmned him, and “Deadshot Bill Branden departed for the South. The station of Lone Shanty was a landmark in Amarrillo, New Mexico. Sharply outlined against the sky it stood—bleak, unattractive, and desolate. The victim of many a standstorm that angrily swept the desert, exposed to the whims of the elements and ridiculed by all strangers who swaggered across its worn 20

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A mother’s shriek pierced the hearts of all present, then it sank and was lost in a tumult of sobbing. Asked if he had any¬ thing to say, “Deadshot” had given one of the strangest replies ever given by a sentenced man. He said, “I swear vengeance upon the railroad that is putting me behind the bars. Even if it takes me thirty years, I shall put the ‘Gilt Edge’ in the scrap- heap.” A sharp toot from the big Mogul, that led the “Gilt Edge” out of the land of bondage, awakened Sterns from his revery, and all thoughts of “Deadshot Bill” Branden faded from his mind. It was time to start as his Elgin testified and a wave of his hand sent the “Gilt Edge” thundering down the track. Far to the north, where the rolling sea-like prairies of Kansas spread monotonously from horizon to horizon, had been built in the early “eighties” what is known to those persons who built it, by its more dignified name, a penitentiary. But to those poor unfortunates who wasted out their days behind its grim stone walls, it was recognized by the less dignified label, •‘the pen.” And in truth it was a pen, where men were driven like slaves, where the moans of the weak mingled with the oaths of the sullen and defiant, and where hunger and thirst, cold and heat stalked at will. It was not a place where good will and re¬ pentance might enter, but it was a place where revenge and de¬ fiance could be and was cultivated to perfection. It was in this place that “Deadshot Bill” Branden had for ten long years nourished a revenge that gnawed at his heart and which at times seemed to fill his whole body with a poison that caused him to act as one demented. His fellow man he hated, for was it not he who had put him in this place ? There was only one person in the world for whom he held any love. That was his mother. His fellow prisoners knew little about him for he remained apart from them. In fact, he had never spoken more than two words to any one of them. Yet they respected him and tried to make his slavery among them as pleasant as possible. For was not the man who could “hold up” the famed “Gilt Edge” express worthy of any man’s respect? As for Branden, he thought little of the prisoners or their affairs. True, he was one of them, and as number 2382 went to work with them every day. But his mind was not with them, 19

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platform yet it had some comfort. For the “Gilt Edge” express, that far-famed train, condescended to stop before its door and deposit a dilapidated mail sack, which was consigned to a post- office that lay somewhere out in the hazy beyond. Leaving Lone Shanty the gleaming rails sped forward in a straight course for about two miles. Then, as if they had changed their mind as to where they wished to go, those threads of steel swung around in a graceful curve and entered a deep gorge known as El Amigo. This gorge had a length of five miles and lay parallel to Lone Shanty at a distance of half a mile. Thus, one wishing to make a short cut from the station to El Amigo could follow the path that ran through the woods to the top of the gorge. But there it ended, for at this point the gorge was over a hundred feet deep and its sides straight up and down. The 29th of June had been what is known as a “scorcher.” The rays of the glowing sun had beat mercilessly down upon the gasping earth. In El Amigo one could have fried eggs on the burning stones. As the long afternoon waned toward a close a man staggered into the canyon. His back was bent beneath the weight of several tools commonly used by section men. To all appearances he was a section hand, and would have passed inspection as such. Yet there was a nervous air about him that would plainly have told a careful observer that all was not right. He had an uncomfortable way of looking behind him without reason and of striking a listening attitude every now and then. Finally he came to a standstill and laid down his tools at what appeared his destination, an old freight siding. Assuming a careless manner the man dropped down beside the switch as if to make a careful examination of it. After a moment or so he arose and looked in all directions. Then, with an evil smile upon his haggard face, he strode off up the track toward Lone Shanty. The shadows were beginning to lengthen in El Amigo. A mild breeze had sprung up from the South, bringing with it refreshment to the drooping flowers. Soon it would be night and then would come the “Gilt Edge” thundering through the canyon. Lodged tight and firm in the switch of the old freight siding was a jagged piece of granite. How unoffending it looked and how small! Yet it was to send the lives of five hundred to death. Could nothing be done? Would no one come? The deserted canyon was as still as death. Two buzzards sailed far aloft and now and then a coyote barked. No, nothing could 21