Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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

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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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prevent the impending fate of the “Gilt Edge,” for its time had come. “Deadshot Bill” Branden had done his work. With hat drawn down over his eyes, and an apparently careless manner, Branden made his way, tie by tie, rail by rail, back to Lone Shanty. There in the shadows of the old freight shed he waited. Waited so patiently and yet so nervously for the coming of the “Gilt Edge.” Prudence told him he ought not to lose so much time, for every minute lost might mean discovery and capture. But the desire to see the “Gilt Edge” go to its doom, a desire which had been kept alive for ten long years, was not to be downed so easily. Therefore he waited. Darkness fell, lights burst forth in the station windows and the animals of night crept forth. Soon the humming rails and the gleams of light that raced before an approaching head¬ light, told Branden that his vigil was over. With a shuddering screech from the brake shoes, a mighty exhalation of steam and air that choked the atmosphere, the great “Gilt Edge” ex¬ press came to a grinding stop. How Branden’s eyes feasted upon it! How he gloated as he look ed in at its lighted windows and saw the well dressed, contented passengers reposing so easily among its beautiful furnishings! Yes, they soon would pay for this comfort and Branden was glad. Yea, delighted. Conductor Sterns appeared from somewhere with a mail sack in his hand. From the cover of the shadows Branden shook his fist and bared his dog-like teeth at the figure of the haughty conductor. On second thought he smiled, for Sterns’ glory would be short. Yes, it was the happiest moment of Branden’s life. A shiver ran through the whole train as Stems, throwing his right arm skyward, gave the signal for departure. How Branden’s heart thumped as he watched each coach glide slowly by him. Suddenly, and without warning, Branden uttered a weird cry, clutched desperately at his heart and his face grew as pale as death. He acted as one who had seen a ghost. Then suddenly he sprang forward after the ever faster receeding train, but, seeing the futility of overtaking it, he turned and flew toward the path that ran over the hill to El Amigo. But why this change in “Deadshot’s” attitude? As he had stood gazing at the passing coaches, his attention had been ar¬ rested by a face framed in one of the windows. It had only been for a second, but in that short space of time Branden had recog¬ nized that face. It was a person whom Branden loved better than 22