Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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to sneak out with the wagon, they had left that behind. It was a cloudy night, and the moon could not be seen. They had been traveling several hours, and it was now almost midnight. No sound was to be heard except the yapping of coyotes and the hoots of owls. It was then that Turlow, listening care- fully and intently, heard the snap of a dry twig. One of you do that?” he whispered to Joe and Nancy. Not us,” they replied. “Net so loud! Was it any of the horses?” Wasn’t my hoss,” whispered Nancy. “Mine neither.” said Joe. “Mebbe it was just a coyote,” Turlow tried to reassure himself. He stared at the Mountainside above for a full minute before he caught a glimpse of the two figures running wraithlike. He didn’t have to see the long black hair, the rawhhide boots, the breechclouts, or the glittering wolf- like eyes in the broad cruel faces to know that the two runners were Apaches. No one else could move so swiftly and yet so stealth- ily. And they were moving in Turlow’s direc- tion. Real quiet, you kids,” he whispered, one peep, we’re dead!” He eased his Colt from its holster and cocked it slowly. Turlow knew only too well that a shot might bring a howl- ing horde of warriors down on them. But he might soon have no choice. The Apache scouts moved steadily closer. Now he could hear them talking in low gut- teral voices. He leveled the Colt. Joe’s horse let out a snort. The Apache scouts whirled around. He walked swiftly toward the place where the two children crouched with fear- wide eyes. Turlow swung the Colt around to follow the scout. Now the Apache was only a hundred yards away. Turlow could distinguish his squat fea- tures. It was only a matter of seconds now—. Suddenly the Apache shrugged and turned around then they both headed down the mountainside in another direction. Turlow was conscious, for the first time, of his wildly thundering heart. As soon as the hostile scouts were well out of sight, he turned to the children and chuckled, Well you two can start breathin’ again. Let’s get moving!” The sun had risen once more, and the posse had re-discovered Bob Turlow’s trail with the aid of Manuel Turquino, Sheriff Mac ready’s ace halfbreed tracker. Turquino pushed his sombrero up from his eyes, and got up from the horse tracks, over which he had been kneeling. Si, boss, no doubt now, these outlaw heed into Indian country. He not live long there, I theenk!” One of the deputies muttered agreement. He’s goin’ into Cochise Country and the Apaches ’re sure to get him! I don’t wanna go chasin’ into there! — ’sides, I got a store to keep.” Finally, Sheriff Dan Macready was moved to agree. “All right, boys, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll go back. We’ll never catch him now, anyway. But I sure hope the Apaches get him—alive! Faro Banks was my friend!” Hey! Sheriff! Look there! It’s a cloud of dust! Might be Apaches.” All eyes turned to look. But it was not an Apache war party; there were only three riders. Soon they were close enough so that the posse could see the riders were a man and two children. “It’s Turlow!” one of the deputies yelled. Colts came out of holsters and rifles emerged from scabbards. So did Turlow’s Colt. But Turlow did not aim and fire; he threw the re- volver into the dust and raised his hands. For a second a brief smile cracked Mac- ready’s sour features. What made you come back, Turlow? Apaches on your trail? Who’re the kids?” Couple kids I met up in the hills,” Turlow answered. “Had to bury their folks.” “Well, mebbe you figured turnin’ good Samaritan to save your hide.” Macready spoke grimly. “Well, it won’t. You killed a friend of mine and we’ve got a tree limb and a rope waitin’ for you back in Tucson.” I kind of figured it that way,” was Tur- low’s only answer. He realized that he had just gone to his own hanging; that his act of mercy had just cost him his life, but somehow it did not bother Bob Turlow. In fact, he felt strangely happy. Twenty-four

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he was suddenly startled by a whiff of smoke from a mesquite fire. An instant later he saw the flame flicker- ing some distance away, partly screened by the heavy underbrush. Turlow eased his horse to a stop and dismounted very care- fully. He moved swiftly but quietly through the mesquite, drawing and cocking his navy Colt as he ran. He feared that the fire might be warning the camp of an Apache raiding party. Now Turlow was almost to the camp. He saw no Apache warriors, but a wagon, some team horses grazing nearby, and two children frying bacon at the fire—a boy of about ten, and a girl, a year or so younger. The girl dropped the frying pan into the campfire as Turlow came into view. He didn’t stop to address her, but strode over to the fire, picked up a nearby bucket of water, and threw it on the fire. Only then did he speak, You kids trying to get scalped? Any Apache in miles could have seen this! And where's your folks ?” “We’re sorry, mister, we didn’t know there were any Injuns around,” the boy said, “And please don’t talk so loud, Ma and Pa are real sick and they’re in the wagon.” “That so? I’d better go see about them then. What’s your names ?” “Joe and Nancy Cotts. Maybe you better not bother Ma and Pa. They’re awful sick,” Joe exclaimed. Turlow climbed into the wagon and looked anyway. He saw at once that the children’s parents were not sick. They were dead. It must have been cholera, Turlow decided. Funny the kids hadn’t caught it. But things happened that way, sometimes. He broke the news to the children as gently as he could. They were as grief-stricken as any kids would be at learning that they had suddenly lost what was most dear to them in all the world. They got over crying surprisingly quickly. They were frontier children, and death was no stranger to them. Turlow buried Mr. and Mrs. Cotts that very night. He did it alone. He tied two sticks together to make a crude cross and put it above the grave. “Guess I’ll stay overnight with the kids, and leave in the morning. I should be out of Injun country by noon tomorrow. “Then,” suddenly an alarming thought occurred to him—“What about the two children? He couldn’t very well leave them here. It would be only a matter of time till the Apaches found them.” And then Turlow, tough as he was, shuddered at the thought. He’d seen what happened to people the Apaches cap- tured. It wasn’t very pretty. “Maybe I can take ’em with me to Silver City,” he thought. No sooner had he con- sidered this than he rejected it. He could slip through the Apaches—if he was alone, but not with two children. They would slow him down fatally. Turlow pondered hard. Was there any army post or trading station any- where close by ? There wasn’t. That left one alternative. “But if I go back. I’ll get hanged for sure!” he thought with alarm. The temptation to leave the two children behind grew steadily stronger. “No! I done some low things in my life, and mebbe I’ll do more, but I ain’t never done nothin so low as that!” At that moment Turlow decided what he must do. “After I get back to Tucson with the kids. I’ll get out of that necktie party someway,” he silently promised himself. They stayed under cover that night and all the next day. Then after sundown the next evening, they stole out of the brush. Turlow was leading his own horse, and Joe and Nancy each had one of the team horses following them. Since they could not hope Twenty-three

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MY DIFFICULTY IN WRITING ESSAYS Paul Massigilia ’63 Thus far in the current school year my literary achievements have been confined to the nonexistent. This deplorable (as any self- respecting English teacher will agree) con- dition is not due to any lethargy on the part of my English teacher; on the contrary, to our class there have been assigned both an essay and a short story, neither of which I have turned in at the appointed time. My record, unequalled within the confines of my English class, is chiefly due to the man- ner in which I perform my assignments. I seat myself at a table with a ream of com- position paper at my left hand, a gross of well-sharpened pencils at my right, and a dozen erasers in front of me. Thus fortified, I remain seated for two hcurs while I draw isoscles triangles, and regular hexagons, letter my name in old English type, write the Lord’s Prayer in Ger- man, and construct magnificent paper air- planes. At the end of this time (when I have either run out of paper or become buried with the above-mentioned pastimes) I give up, ex- cusing myself by saying that I’m not very persistent by nature as that too much think- ing is bad for my health. Actually, my imagination has not lain bar- ren all this time. However, it works in exact- ly the wrong direction. For instance, if it is an essay which is assigned, I perform my calisthenics with the pencil while the plots of countless short stories run rampant in my brain. While thoughts of the ancient Romans, chiva'ry, charging Ghurkas, and gangsters manufacturing Swiss cheese with machine guns pervade my mind and I invent a lover to make Romeo seem like an empty beer bot- tle, I am totally incapable of having opinions upon anything. When a short story is the order of the day, conversely, I have profound thoughts upon all things, but I cannot think of even a bad plot, were I to fortify myself. My English teacher offered what seemed a solution when she suggested to our class that we should write whenever we felt so inclined. I tried this and found that laziness is one of my more dominant traits of character. I write these lines, not in any plea for sym- pathy, but I do hope that some philanthropic assassin will read them and undertake a cru- sade to stamp out English teachers. Just in case, I have English period I in room 245. THAT FATEFUL NIGHT Rosemarie Farina ’63 I remember those carefree days of long ago when, as a child. I watched my older sis- ter dress for a date. While I sat on the bed, with my eyes glowing, she very carefully ap- plied mascara, eye shadow and numerous other beauty aids. I dreamed of the day I would dress for my first date, (that fateful night). I devoured books overflowing with sweet princesses and kind-hearted fairies. I sat through movies that gushed with love and romance. I was a romanticist in the true sense of the word. I imagined my date as the epitome of all Prince Charmings. His clothing would be im- peccable. Brimming with personality and hu- mor, he would laugh through the night. A mental image of his car loomed before me. The glistening white paint dazzled my eyes. It sparkled from fender to fender. The plush atmosphere of the restaurant we would dine at delighted me. Soft music floated to every table. My common sense, dulled and clouded by dreams, was cast aside. As I approached my sixteenth birthday “the” night arrived. I treasured every long, elaborate hour that I dressed. And then the doorbell rang. I opened the door, gazed at his scuffed sneakers, patched dungarees, sport shirt, disheveled hair, and staggered back. Meekly I whispered, “Hello.” With a snap of his chewing gum and a grunt from him, we departed. Before I knew what had happened we were on a crowded bus, fighting for a seat. This was my Prince Charming? ? ? The plush restaurant was Joe’s Pizza Place! The wail from the jukebox shattered my ear- drums. Later, at home. I realized how childish and foolish I was. I was waiting for someone who existed only in books. It was a hard-earned lesson, one I will never forget. Twtnty-fiv©