University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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THE REDWOOD 17 roof .... desolation — all, all desola- tion; desolation in the cabin on Puris- sima ridge; desolation in Foster ' s soul. Like a drunken man Foster staggered through the doorway and stood bare- headed with his face to the black sky. His lips formed an oath, but he checked its utterance. After all, he reasoned, it was too much to ask that she should wait in un- certainty month upon month. He him- self would not have done it ; he knew it. Had she gone? Well, he loved his wife — Johanna — and he should have been glad that she had not waited. He had said that he was sorry she had waited that first long year; but then that was a lie. Surely she loved him — of course! But .... isn ' t love sacri- fice? The thought staggered Foster and he put his hand to his brow to find that it was wet. Sacrifice ! Why, to be sure ; she had offered the sacrifice for a whole year — more than that ; and now ... it was his turn. He loved her; certainly. He repeated it to himself over and over to make sure. Well, he could make as great a sacrifice as she had .... and he would. But then recollection came upon him — he would be captured before an- other sundown. And he had Avanted — indeed, it was his only desire — to em- brace Johanna once ; to whisper — He could not think; his brain was dizzy. Drawing a knife from his belt he plunged it into his breast, and fell, face forward, into the grass. Like the heart beat of a sympathetic mountain the monotonous dirge of the crickets beat upon the deaf ears of the pros- trate man. But his own heart was wast- ing itself in a dark pool upon the dry ground. Some hours later there was the sound of voices and of tinkling spurs among the redwoods. Not so much noise, there, said a voice in an undertone; our man may be laying for us in this blasted wilderness. There was a long silence during which the posse ap- proached the clearing. Damnation! said the same voice softly; the old boss hit a snag — out o ' that brush, you poke! The horse refused to push through the undergrowth so its rider dis- mounted. Strike a flare, someone, he whis- pered. Seems like a building ahead. One of the men lit a match and by its flickering light they were able to dis- cern the deserted cabin. As the match puffed out one of the posse caught sight of the rigid form of Foster, and he cried: By Christopher, there ' s our man! Look out! Another light revealed the fact that the hunted man had at last completely eluded his pursuers. Damnable reward fer all our work, said the sheriff. Put him on one o ' the bosses. ' ' Chief, ' ' said a man who had started to raise him, in an awe-struck tone; this dead chap ' s layin ' right-a-strad- dle a grave ! ' ' Hidden in the tall grass they found a rude cross on which was carved the letter J .

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16 THE REDWOOD Foster nodded. To-morrow evening my brother sails thither in the ' Night Hawk ' , ' ' answered the Spaniard. Do you know why he calls it that? Foster shook his head. Because, he said, the night hawk does its work in the darkness and is gone before the light; likewise this ship. He winked and Foster under- stood for he himself had been a smug- gler. So he sailed and took up his quar- ters on the vessel among bale upon bale of a rather cheap Mexican tobacco. But he heeded the call of the siren of his other days, and enlisted as a partner in the illegal traffic. When they at- tempted to land in a lonely cove near Monterej they found that the authori- ties had anticipated them, and there followed a pitched battle. So for Fos- ter, though he escaped, the chase began anew. For slow-footed months he evad- ed his pursuers. Often he was awak- ened from dreams of the cabin on Pu- rissima, to find the hounds hot again on the trail of the fox. Efforts to ap- prehend him became more determined, and the circle was closing about him. Every hope deserted the fugitive save one ; and that was Johanna. By the end of the summer Foster felt himself wavering; he knew that the end of his hunted exis tence was at hand, but he knew that it was to be ended by capture. The one light that still burned for him was one that cast its beams from a heart waiting — he knew that — in a cabin on Purissima ridge. He was in the far south at San Pablo. For two weeks he tramped through the dry fields of the San Joa- quin; chanced it to the ocean, hid for a day in Purissima Mission and in the evening slunk away and began the as- cent of the mountain. The sun dragged its ragged golden cloak over the ocean and disappeared ; with the sudden coolness there sound- ed uncanny crackings in the redwood forest. Particularly terrifying were they to Foster for the hush of the even- ing stimulated his imagination, and the children of this imagination were armed captors. He sighted the grim redwood while a purple glow still clothed the sky regally, and was re- flected in the wine-colored sea. Un- noticing of weariness he reached the clearing while a semi-light showed the cabin ' s rude bulk shrined like a nat- ural growth among the bushes. There was no light in the little cab- in, but that was not strange, for when people sit by the window in thought, they always dim the lamp. The even- ing was so still that he forbore to call aloud but made his way through sus- piciously untrampled grass to the cabin. Then the light which had burned in the heart of Foster went out like a candle flame in a wind. He could hear his heart beating loudly ; and something falling distantly in the forest; as he stared vacantly at the gaping aperture that had framed a door. Johanna! Jo .... The last syllable trailed off into silence. His cry awakened a bat who flitted from the paneless window, while an owl hooted at his misery high above the heads of the forest. Despair with strong fingers gripped his heart, and the blood left his face. With a deliberate step he en- tered the cabin and struck a match. His eyes gleamed like two candles in a well, as he peered at the cold ashes on the hearth, the rotten floor, the fallen

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November Thoughts OW great the joy On tKat Movember Day, WKen battle ' s smoke At last was borne away; The ligKt of peace, In full effulgence gleamed. As yonder ray, At break of day. In golden glory beamed. Yet not to all This radiant ligKt brings cheer. For she who mourns A son in silent tear. Heeds not its gleam; To her there is no peace For with her loss Looms dark her cross, Ne ' er will her sorrow cease. Ye nations sage, Whate ' er you may believe A mortal hand. Her loss cannot retrieve; Ye nations grave, With all your wealth and power. The Angel grim. The Spectre dim. Will ne ' er before you cower. Ye nations all. If her you would console. Another son Take not in battle ' s toll; Your hates and fears. For her at least forget, Then not in vain, She will sustain The loss we all regret. J. MARIUS BECCHETTI 18