Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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Hallado? i . JJELLO, old man, any mail? Wherefore is that seriousness; been buying a lot in that new co-operative cemetery ? v ’ The postmaster did not smile but with awkward embarrassment he shoved a dirty brown envelope through the gate. “No, but pre¬ haps it would have been advisable. George, I found that letter be¬ hind my desk this morning. It’s postmarked from Mexico six months ago.” “Ah, cheer up. It takes more than that to rile my trigger finger.” He took the letter. “It’s from my brother.” His brother, Charlie, had left the panhandle and gone southwestward into the Mexican state of Sonora, when George was only ten. “Hello, he’s in trouble, or rather, he was. He may be in a hotter place than trouble by this time. A greaser can ' t fight fair, he likes to use a knife in the dark, when your back is turned.” An expression of concern clouded the postmaster’s face. “I’m sure sorry for my carelessness, George. I feel like I needed lvnch- ing.” “O, that’s all right, it may not be too late yet.” He pulled out his watch. “It’s only four minutes till the limited is due.” The watch closed with a snap. Half consciously his hand sought the butt of his six-shooter, his first finger nervously twirled the cylinder as if to caress it. His face hardened with determination, and the glitter in his eye made one think of the sun’s reflection from the blue barrel of a forty-five. He was not handsome, a cowpuncher never is, but his face was a face that men like. He rode the way men ride when you like to see them ride. He was kind; when he rode in for a fresh mount he had only to whistle; other men used the lariat. He was brave and could shoot. The gun-fighter who killed his father had found that out. He grasped his friend’s hand and then strode across the hot sandy street into the little yellow pine National Bank. The only one that Dalhart, the heart of the panhandle, boasted of, then. He drew his roll of long-green and caught the train with onlv a few seconds to spare. In sixty hours he was in Benson, Arizona. He bought another 26

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In English Class I stood before the English class, The fatal clay had come When I must make a little speech, A speech, while they sat mum. I spake and spake of this and that. Ah, me, what had I done ! My teacher marked me with a glance, Oh, I was fain to rim. I gasped, I stopped and silence fell; I sought my seat in shame. They glanced at me on every side. The teacher called my name. “-quoth she, “you needs must know As any Senior should, That you must quote to prove your point. Or else it is not good. ' ’ And thus spoke on the learned one I could not choose but hear, “You must repeat it o’er and o’er And make it very clear. “For people’s brains are very dull, Their sense is very small And even the brightest people have Almost no sense at all.” R- H., 13. -5

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gun (respectable citizens wore only one in Texas) and took the little Mexican train that runs south through Sonora. After they crossed the line at Nogales he was the only American on the train. They left the valley of the dry Nogales and entered the brown, scorched Sierra Madres. George did not mind the heat, the glare, the monotony of the cactus, greasewood and mesquite; he was used to heat; he had cradled in monotony. But he was im¬ patient of delay and the train coughed along more and more slowly. The lazy smoke of the lazier Mexicans filled the dirty car, the sight of them irritated him. He swore; the drive-wheels slipped a time or two and he swore again. Then, the man across the aisle leaned over, and in spite of his fierce-looking mustache, smiled. ‘‘The senor enjoys the scenery, no?” George swore again, but the Mexican did not mind; he prefer- led to take it for an invitation. He smiled and rattled on, his eyes twinkling with that true Spanish friendliness. He was a pompous, self-important little fellow. “Si senor, I am an official, a detective; at present I am watching the train for an American murderer, Charlie Goree.” George started slightly but collected himself immediately The Mexican noticed the betrayal, however, and looked at him suspic¬ iously. “Ha! Do you know him?” “No. I have heard his name somewhere, but I have forgotten where. Your mentioning it startled me. Whom did he kill? The detective was reassured and soon told all he knew. Charlie had been in trouble sure enough. For seven or eight years he had been undisturbed. He and his partner, Sanderlain, had done well. They owned several thousand head of cattle and were using the valley of the upper Del Altar for range. Jose Bustamante, a rich and jealous hidalgo, friend of Porfirio Diaz, claimed most of northeastern Sonora. None dared dispute his claim and he generally had things his own way. He paid little attention to the two partners at first, but when he saw they were becoming wealthy he determined to drive them out. They warred for several years. Bustamante stole their cattle and killed their peons until they were facing ruin. Then the end came. A night- herder rode in one midnight with the news that a force of Busta¬ mante’s men had stampeded the herd and were sweeping down on the ranch-house. The two Americans with their handful of men sheltered themselves in one of the huge ’dobe barns. They kept up a fusillade for several hours, but when Sanderlain fell with a bullet 27