I want to tell some facts about the Bald Knob sheep raid that did not come out at the trial of Rowan McCoy. When the party was made up to ride on that raid I wasn’t included. They left me out because I had a grudge at Tait. But I horned in. I followed the boys for miles, and insisted on going along. McCoy objected. He said the party was going to drive off the sheep and not to do any killing. I promised to take orders from him. He laid out a plan by which we could surprise the camp without bloodshed, and made it plain there was to be no shooting. Afterward he went over it all very carefully again, and we agreed not to shoot.I lost my head when we was crawling up on the camp and shot at the wagon. That was the first shot fired. Tait came out and began shooting at us. Two or three of us were shooting. I don’t know who killed him. Gilroy ran out of the wagon to escape. McCoy hollered to stop shooting, and ran forward. I must have been crazy. I shot and killed Gilroy.Then McCoy ran to protect the herders. He wrestled with me for the gun to keep me from shooting. None of the other boys had anything to do with the killing of Gilroy except me.It was so dark that nobody knew whether McCoy or I shot Gilroy. McCoy protected me, and said we were all to blame, since we had come together. He never did tell who did the shooting. I looked at his gun a little later, and saw that he had not fired a shot from first to last.I am making this statement of my own free will, and under no compulsion whatever. I am of sound mind and body, except for a bullet wound in my leg that is getting better. My only reason for making it is that I want to see justice done. The others have suffered too much already for what I did.
I want to tell some facts about the Bald Knob sheep raid that did not come out at the trial of Rowan McCoy. When the party was made up to ride on that raid I wasn’t included. They left me out because I had a grudge at Tait. But I horned in. I followed the boys for miles, and insisted on going along. McCoy objected. He said the party was going to drive off the sheep and not to do any killing. I promised to take orders from him. He laid out a plan by which we could surprise the camp without bloodshed, and made it plain there was to be no shooting. Afterward he went over it all very carefully again, and we agreed not to shoot.
I lost my head when we was crawling up on the camp and shot at the wagon. That was the first shot fired. Tait came out and began shooting at us. Two or three of us were shooting. I don’t know who killed him. Gilroy ran out of the wagon to escape. McCoy hollered to stop shooting, and ran forward. I must have been crazy. I shot and killed Gilroy.
Then McCoy ran to protect the herders. He wrestled with me for the gun to keep me from shooting. None of the other boys had anything to do with the killing of Gilroy except me.
It was so dark that nobody knew whether McCoy or I shot Gilroy. McCoy protected me, and said we were all to blame, since we had come together. He never did tell who did the shooting. I looked at his gun a little later, and saw that he had not fired a shot from first to last.
I am making this statement of my own free will, and under no compulsion whatever. I am of sound mind and body, except for a bullet wound in my leg that is getting better. My only reason for making it is that I want to see justice done. The others have suffered too much already for what I did.
Falkner signed the statement. It was witnessed by Jennings and the two deputies. Mrs. Stovall added the notarial seal of her office to it.
Ruth put her head down on the little table where the medicines were and cried like a child. At last—at last Rowan would be free to come home to her. Her long, long waiting was at an end. She could begin to count the days now till her lover would be with her again.
CHAPTER XXXIII
RUTH telephoned a message down to Wagon Wheel to be wired to Governor McDowell that night. It was impossible for her to sleep, and after she had packed she lay awake for hours planning the fight for Rowan’s freedom. She found herself framing a passionate plea to the governor and the board of pardons for justice to her husband. She visualized the scene until it became so real that she had to rise from bed, get into a loose gown, and take notes of what she must tell them. Not till nearly two o’clock did she fall into a broken sleep.
The sheriff drove her and the baby to town next morning. From here she sent Louise a telegram to tell her they were on the way to Cheyenne. Matson, with strong letters in his pocket from Haight and the district judge recommending clemency, took the noon train also to add the weight of his influence.
When the train rolled into the station at Cheyenne, Louise was waiting for them in her car. She and Ruth, after the manner of their sex, shed a few happy tears together in each other’s arms, while Matson, rawboned and awkward, stood near holding Rowan, junior.
“The board of pardons is to meet this afternoon in Phil’s office, and you and Mr. Matson are to have a hearing before it,” her friend told Ruth. “It’s going to be all right this time, I do believe. I can see Phil means to be reasonable. He’d better. I told him I was going over to the ranch to live with you if he didn’t pardon Rowan.”
“What does he say?”
“He says that if Falkner’s statement is as strong as your wire claimed the board will have to free all four. Phil wants to push the whole thing through as quick as he can for you.”
“That’s fine,” commented Matson. “Will it be a parole or a pardon?”
“Depends on the confession, Phil says,” Louise declared. “He has wired the warden at Rawlins to call in any of the four men if they are out on road work. I expect that by this time Rowan and his friends must guess there is something in the air.”
This was not the first time that Ruth and her attorney had appeared before the board of pardons. From the very day of his conviction she had missed no possible chance that might help her husband. The members of the board had been very kind to her. She had read admiration in their glances. But the majority of them had voted against her request. To-day somehow it was different. As soon as she entered the inner office of the governor with Sheriff Matson and Rowan, she knew that victory was in sight. The cordial handshake of the chairman, a fatherly old gentleman with Horace Greeley whiskers, was more reassuring than promises. She felt that his grip was congratulating her on the success he anticipated.
Little Rowan prevented the meeting from being a formal one. He wriggled free from his mother and ran forward with arms outstretched to his friend the governor. He insisted clamorously on having his “tick-tock” to play with, and he experimented with the pockets of his Excellency to find which one of them had supplied the candy with which he had been furnished earlier in the day.
Ruth forgot all about the arguments she had meant to present. Instead she told, between tears and smiles, the story of the blizzard and its consequences. The adroit questions of the governor drew the tale of the adventure from her in a simple, dramatic way. No doubt its effect was greater coming from this slender, girlish mother with the dark, wistful eyes and the touch of shyness in her manner. Rowan’s lawyer, an expert with juries, knew when to avoid an anticlimax by getting her out of the room.
Just before leaving his office for the night Governor McDowell called Louise on the telephone. That young woman beamed at what he said, and beckoned Ruth.
“Phil wants to talk with you.”
Ruth took the receiver, her hand trembling. “Hello!” she said. “Yes, it’s Ruth.”
“I have good news for you, my dear,” the voice at the other end of the wire said. “Rowan and his three friends are to be paroled at once. I am going to make it a full pardon for Rowan and perhaps for the others, too.”
For years Ruth had been waiting for this news. Now that it had come she did not weep or cry out or do anything the least dramatic. She just said: “Oh, I’m so glad! Thank you.”
“I’ve been instructed by the board to tell you how much it appreciates the game fight you made and to add that it gives this parole with more pleasure than any it has ever granted.”
“When can I see Rowan? And when will he be out?”
“He’ll be out just as soon as the papers can be prepared, my dear. I’m coming right home to tell you all about it.”
Two more telegrams were flashed westward from Ruth that night. One was to McCoy, the second to Tim Flanders. The message to Flanders laid upon him the duty of notifying the families of the paroled men. Early next morning Ruth sent still another telegram. It was addressed to Jennings, and gave him instructions that made him get busy at once looking after horses, saddles, pack saddles, a tent, and other camping outfit.
Later in the day Rowan, junior, and his mother entrained for Rawlins. The adventure before her tremendously intrigued the interest of the young wife. It was immensely more significant than her marriage had been. All the threads of her life for years had been converging toward it.
CHAPTER XXXIV
SAM YERBY strolled up and down the station platform. His wife clung to him on one side and on the other trotted Boy, hand in hand with his new-found father. Outwardly Rogers and Cole took their good fortune philosophically, but the Texan could not hide his delight at Missie, Boy, and freedom. The habits of his former life began to reassert themselves. His cheek bulged with a chew of tobacco. As the old cowman grinned jauntily at Ruth, who had come down to see the party off, he chirruped out a stanza of a range song:
“Goin’ back to town to draw my money,Goin’ back home for to see my honey.
“Goin’ back to town to draw my money,Goin’ back home for to see my honey.
“Goin’ back to town to draw my money,Goin’ back home for to see my honey.
“Goin’ back to town to draw my money,
Goin’ back home for to see my honey.
“Only I don’t have to go home to see her. She done come to see the old man. I tell you it’s great, Miss Ruth. This air now; Lordee, I jus’ gulp it down! But I’ll bet it ain’t a circumstance to that on the Fryingpan. I’m sure honin’ to hit the old trails again.”
Ruth smiled through her tears. “Good days ahead, Mr. Yerby, for all of us. We know just how you feel, don’t we, Missie?”
“When do you-all expect Mac to get in?”
“Some time this afternoon. Here comes your train. We’ll see you soon.”
After the train had gone Ruth walked back to the hotel where she was staying. Governor McDowell had given a complete pardon to all four of the cattlemen, but Rowan had not yet reached town from the distant road camp where he was working. The clerk handed the young woman a letter. It was from Jennings and was postmarked at a small town seventy miles farther up the line.
Ruth reclaimed the baby from the nursemaid with whom she had left him and went up to her room. A man came swinging with crisp step along the dark corridor. She would have known that stride anywhere. A wave of emotion crashed through her. In another moment she was in his arms.
“Oh, Rowan—at last!” she cried.
Presently they moved into the room and he held her from him while he searched her face. Since last he had seen her she had endured the sting of rain, the bluster of wind, and the beat of sun. They had played havoc with her wild-rose complexion and the satin of her skin. She was no longer the hothouse exotic he had married, a slip of a girl experimenting with life, but a woman strong as tested steel. Here was a mate worthy of any man, one with a vigorous, brave spirit clad in a body of exquisite grace, young and lissom and vital.
An incomparable mate for some man! But was he the man that could hold her? His old doubts asserted themselves in spite of the white dream of her his heart had held through the years of their separation. She had been loyal—never a woman more so. But he wanted more than loyalty.
Perhaps it was from him she got it. At any rate, an unexpected touch of shyness lowered her lashes. She caught up the baby and handed him to the father.
“Here is your son,” she said, the colour glowing in her cheeks.
Rowan looked at the little being that was flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, and his heart went out to the child in complete surrender. Something primeval, old as the race, set him in an inner tumult. The flame of life had passed through him to this dimpled babe. The child was his—and Ruth’s. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never again know quite the ecstasy of that moment.
To escape the tension of her feeling Ruth hurried into explanations. “I’ve made all our arrangements for the next three days. You’re not to ask me anything about them. You’re going to be personally conducted by me and Baby, and you’ll have to do whatever we tell you to do. Do you understand, sir?”
He smiled and nodded. This particular Ruth—the one that gave gay, imperious orders—was an old friend of his. His heart welcomed her.
Apparently her plans included an automobile journey. Within an hour they were driving through a desert of sand and sagebrush toward the mountains. They glimpsed in the distance a couple of antelope shining in the sunlight. Once a sage hen whirred from almost beneath the wheels of the car. Great bare buttes rose in front of them and marched slowly to the rear.
Rowan asked no questions. He wondered where she was taking him, but he was content to await developments so long as he could sit beside Ruth with the youngster on his lap.
As for Ruth her blood began to beat faster with excitement. She was trying an experiment. If it proved a failure she knew she would be very greatly disappointed. Just now it seemed to her that she had set the whole happiness of her life at stake. For if Rowan did not look at it as she did, if his joy in it did not equal her hopes, they would fail by just so much of that unity of mind for which she prayed.
They had left Rawlins before noon. It was well into the middle of the afternoon before the driver of the car stopped at a little two-store village deep in the hills.
“We get out here,” Ruth told her husband.
She settled with the owner of the car, and the man started back to Rawlins. Opposite the store where they had stopped was a corral. Ruth led the way to it. Three horses were eating hay from a rack.
Rowan looked at them, then at Ruth. He had recognized two of the animals, and the third one showed on the flank the Circle Diamond brand.
“Am I to ask questions yet?” McCoy wanted to know.
“If you like,” she smiled.
“Are we to ride home on the pinto and old Duke?”
“Yes.”
“And the sorrel?”
“For a pack horse.”
“You have supplies and a tent?”
“Jennings brought them.”
He took a deep breath of delight. For three days and nights they would be alone, buried together in the eternal hills. Such a home-coming as this had been beyond his dreams.
“Are you—glad?” she asked, and her voice was tremulous.
“Glad!” He spoke a little roughly to hide his deep feeling. “If I could only let you know how I feel! If I could!”
Her heart jumped with a sudden gladness. Rowan did not want to meet his friends yet. He wanted to be alone with her and the baby. This was to be, then, their true honeymoon, the seal of their love for each other.
Rowan saddled the horses and packed the third animal, throwing the diamond hitch expertly. His wife watched him work. It was a joy to see how the vigour of his spirit found expression in the economy of his movements, in the certainty of his fingers, in the easy power of the shoulders muscled so beautifully where the bronzed neck sloped into them.
Presently they were moving into the bigger hills. They saw no more sage chickens or antelope, but as they wound deeper into the mountains his keen eye detected signs of life that escaped her observation. He made her get down once to look at the trail of an elk.
“We’ve been following his trail from that pine back there,” McCoy told her. “He’s a big fellow, and he was on his way down to water. But he got scared right here, I expect. Maybe he heard us coming, or maybe he smelled a bear. Anyhow, he plunged right into the aspens without waiting to say good-bye.”
“How do you know all that? I believe you’re spoofing, as one of our riders, an Englishman, sometimes tells me when I joke him.”
“He’s left signposts all along the way. There’s one track. See? And there’s another. They’re big tracks and they are far apart. The spread of his forefeet shows that he’s a bull. Now notice where he broke the brush here and how trampled down the young aspens are. His horn ripped the bark clear off this tree. See how far from the ground it is. That shows his height.”
“Yes, but how do you know he was frightened?”
“He dived into the brush mighty reckless. Why didn’t he wait and turn off there by the big rock where the going would be easy? I reckon he thought he hadn’t time.”
They camped far up beside a mountain lake. He pitched tent in a beautiful grove of wide-spaced pines through which a brook sang its way down to the lake. While he unpacked and made preparations for supper Ruth took the rod to try her luck. When she returned half an hour later the tent was pegged down, young pine boughs cut and spread for a bed, and the fire going for their meal. Rowan had the water on to boil for coffee, and slices of bacon in the frying pan ready to set upon the rocks that hedged in his coals.
“I got the big fellow on a royal coachman. He took it with a rush,” she explained.
McCoy cleaned the fish in the brook and cooked them in the pan when the bacon grease was ready. They ate with the healthy appetite of outdoor animals in the hills.
Ruth told him the gossip of the ranch and of the neighbourhood. She retailed to him what she knew of the politics of the county. It pleased her that his interest in these far-away topics was as yet perfunctory. His world just now consisted of three persons, and of the three she was the most important.
“You’re going to lose Jennings,” she told him.
“Isn’t he satisfied?”
Little imps of mischief danced in her eyes. “Not quite, but I think he’s going to be. He has notions of marrying a handsome widow with a sheep ranch.”
Rowan looked at her quickly. “You don’t mean Norma Tait?”
“Don’t I? Why not?” She added a corollary. “Norma is growing younger every day. She has learned to laugh again.”
“I’m glad. Life plays some queer tricks, doesn’t it? But maybe in the end things even up.”
From where she was cuddling the romping boy Ruth looked up and made confession. “At first I thought I wouldn’t bring him with us. I wanted these first days to be ours—just yours and mine. But that was selfish. He has as much right to you as I have. Now I’m glad he is here. You won’t think him in the way, will you?”
It did not seem to him necessary to answer that in words. He took little Rowan into his arms and held him there till the child fell asleep.
When the baby was safely tucked up in the tent Ruth and Rowan walked to the brow of the hill and watched the murk mist settle down into the mountain cañons and drive the purple glow into the lake. They saw the stars come out one by one until the heavens were full of them.
“The day is dead,” he said at last in a low voice which held the throb of pain.
She knew that in his thoughts he was breasting again the troubled waters that had swept them so far apart. Her warm, strong little hand slipped into his. Cheerfully she took up his words:
“Yes, the day is dead—the long day so full of sorrow for us both. But now the night has blotted out our grief. We are at peace—alone—beneath the everlasting stars.”
He could not yet quite escape the net. “I’ve been a poor makeshift of a husband, Ruth. I’ve brought you much worry and sorrow. And I’ve put a stain on you and the boy that never can be wiped out.”
“You’ve brought me all that makes life brave and beautiful.” She turned her buoyant head, and in the white moonlight her smile flashed radiant upon him. “A new day is on the way to us, Rowan. The sun will reach down into the valley there where you and I have been lost in the fog, and all the mist will vanish as if it had never been.”
The man caught his breath sharply. She was so fine! With superb courage and patience she had fought for him. All good things that life had to offer should be hers. Instead, he brought her the poison of the penitentiary record to taint her future.
Something of this he tried to tell her. “I’m a pardoned convict. Your friends will never let you forget that—never.”
“Your friends are my friends. I have no others,” she told him, eyes aglow. Then added, in a murmur: “Oh, my dear, as if what anybody says matters now between you and me.”
Her faith was enough to save them both. He threw away his prudent doubts and snatched her to him. In his kisses the lover spoke.
Presently they walked back to the camp through the gathering darkness. A great peace lay over their world.
THE END
There’s More to Follow!More stories of the sort you like; more, probably, by the author of this one; more than 500 titles all told by writers of world-wide reputation, in the Authors’ Alphabetical List which you will find on thereverse sideof the wrapper of this book. Look it over before you lay it aside. There are books here you are sure to want—some, possibly, that you havealwayswanted.It is aselectedlist; every book in it has achieved a certain measure ofsuccess.The Grosset & Dunlap list is not only the greatest Index of Good Fiction available, it represents in addition a generally accepted Standard of Value. It will pay you toLook on the Other Side of the Wrapper!In case the wrapper is lost write to the publishers for a complete catalog
There’s More to Follow!
More stories of the sort you like; more, probably, by the author of this one; more than 500 titles all told by writers of world-wide reputation, in the Authors’ Alphabetical List which you will find on thereverse sideof the wrapper of this book. Look it over before you lay it aside. There are books here you are sure to want—some, possibly, that you havealwayswanted.It is aselectedlist; every book in it has achieved a certain measure ofsuccess.The Grosset & Dunlap list is not only the greatest Index of Good Fiction available, it represents in addition a generally accepted Standard of Value. It will pay you to
More stories of the sort you like; more, probably, by the author of this one; more than 500 titles all told by writers of world-wide reputation, in the Authors’ Alphabetical List which you will find on thereverse sideof the wrapper of this book. Look it over before you lay it aside. There are books here you are sure to want—some, possibly, that you havealwayswanted.
It is aselectedlist; every book in it has achieved a certain measure ofsuccess.
The Grosset & Dunlap list is not only the greatest Index of Good Fiction available, it represents in addition a generally accepted Standard of Value. It will pay you to
Look on the Other Side of the Wrapper!
In case the wrapper is lost write to the publishers for a complete catalog
In case the wrapper is lost write to the publishers for a complete catalog
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFEWILLIAM MacLEOD RAINEMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s listBIG-TOWN ROUND-UP, THEBRAND BLOTTERSBUCKY O’CONNORCROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHTDAUGHTER OF THE DONS, ADESERT’S PRICE, THEFIGHTING EDGE, THEGUNSIGHT PASSHIGHGRADER, THEIRONHEARTMAN FOUR-SQUARE, AMAN-SIZEMAVERICKSOH, YOU TEX!PIRATE OF PANAMA, THERIDGWAY OF MONTANAROADS OF DOUBTSHERIFF’S SON, THESTEVE YEAGERTANGLED TRAILSTEXAS RANGER, ATROUBLED WATERSVISION SPLENDID, THEWYOMINGYUKON TRAIL, THEGROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers, NEW YORK
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list
BIG-TOWN ROUND-UP, THEBRAND BLOTTERSBUCKY O’CONNORCROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHTDAUGHTER OF THE DONS, ADESERT’S PRICE, THEFIGHTING EDGE, THEGUNSIGHT PASSHIGHGRADER, THEIRONHEARTMAN FOUR-SQUARE, AMAN-SIZEMAVERICKSOH, YOU TEX!PIRATE OF PANAMA, THERIDGWAY OF MONTANAROADS OF DOUBTSHERIFF’S SON, THESTEVE YEAGERTANGLED TRAILSTEXAS RANGER, ATROUBLED WATERSVISION SPLENDID, THEWYOMINGYUKON TRAIL, THE
BIG-TOWN ROUND-UP, THEBRAND BLOTTERSBUCKY O’CONNORCROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHTDAUGHTER OF THE DONS, ADESERT’S PRICE, THEFIGHTING EDGE, THEGUNSIGHT PASSHIGHGRADER, THEIRONHEARTMAN FOUR-SQUARE, AMAN-SIZEMAVERICKSOH, YOU TEX!PIRATE OF PANAMA, THERIDGWAY OF MONTANAROADS OF DOUBTSHERIFF’S SON, THESTEVE YEAGERTANGLED TRAILSTEXAS RANGER, ATROUBLED WATERSVISION SPLENDID, THEWYOMINGYUKON TRAIL, THE
BIG-TOWN ROUND-UP, THE
BRAND BLOTTERS
BUCKY O’CONNOR
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT
DAUGHTER OF THE DONS, A
DESERT’S PRICE, THE
FIGHTING EDGE, THE
GUNSIGHT PASS
HIGHGRADER, THE
IRONHEART
MAN FOUR-SQUARE, A
MAN-SIZE
MAVERICKS
OH, YOU TEX!
PIRATE OF PANAMA, THE
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA
ROADS OF DOUBT
SHERIFF’S SON, THE
STEVE YEAGER
TANGLED TRAILS
TEXAS RANGER, A
TROUBLED WATERS
VISION SPLENDID, THE
WYOMING
YUKON TRAIL, THE
GROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers, NEW YORK
RAFAEL SABATINI’S NOVELSMay be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.Jesi, a diminutive city of the Italian Marches, was the birthplace of Rafael Sabatini, and here he spent his early youth. The city is glamorous with those centuries the author makes live again in his novels with all their violence and beauty.Mr. Sabatini first went to school in Switzerland and from there to Lycee of Oporto, Portugal, and like Joseph Conrad, he has never attended an English school. But English is hardly an adopted language for him, as he learned it from his mother, an English woman who married the Maestro-Cavaliere VincenzoSabatini.Today Rafael Sabatini is regarded as “The Alexandre Dumas of Modern Fiction.”MISTRESS WILDINGA romance of the days of Monmouth’s rebellion. The action is rapid, its style is spirited, and its plot is convincing.FORTUNE’S FOOLAll who enjoyed the lurid lights of the French Revolution with Scaramouche, or the brilliant buccaneering days of Peter Blood, or the adventures of the Sea-Hawk, the corsair, will now welcome with delight a turn in Restoration London with the always masterful Col. Randall Holles.BARDELYS THE MAGNIFICENTAn absorbing story of love and adventure in France of the early seventeenth century.THE SNAREIt is a story in which fact and fiction are delightfully blended and one that is entertaining in high degree from first to last.CAPTAIN BLOODThe story has glamor and beauty, and it is told with an easy confidence. As for Blood himself, he is a superman, compounded of a sardonic humor, cold nerves, and hot temper. Both the story and the man are masterpieces. A great figure, a great epoch, a great story.THE SEA-HAWK“The Sea-Hawk” is a book of fierce bright color and amazing adventure through which stalks one of the truly great and masterful figures of romance.SCARAMOUCHENever will the reader forget the sardonic Scaramouche, who fights equally well with tongue and rapier, who was “born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.”GROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers, NEW YORK
RAFAEL SABATINI’S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.
Jesi, a diminutive city of the Italian Marches, was the birthplace of Rafael Sabatini, and here he spent his early youth. The city is glamorous with those centuries the author makes live again in his novels with all their violence and beauty.
Mr. Sabatini first went to school in Switzerland and from there to Lycee of Oporto, Portugal, and like Joseph Conrad, he has never attended an English school. But English is hardly an adopted language for him, as he learned it from his mother, an English woman who married the Maestro-Cavaliere VincenzoSabatini.
Today Rafael Sabatini is regarded as “The Alexandre Dumas of Modern Fiction.”
MISTRESS WILDING
A romance of the days of Monmouth’s rebellion. The action is rapid, its style is spirited, and its plot is convincing.
FORTUNE’S FOOL
All who enjoyed the lurid lights of the French Revolution with Scaramouche, or the brilliant buccaneering days of Peter Blood, or the adventures of the Sea-Hawk, the corsair, will now welcome with delight a turn in Restoration London with the always masterful Col. Randall Holles.
BARDELYS THE MAGNIFICENT
An absorbing story of love and adventure in France of the early seventeenth century.
THE SNARE
It is a story in which fact and fiction are delightfully blended and one that is entertaining in high degree from first to last.
CAPTAIN BLOOD
The story has glamor and beauty, and it is told with an easy confidence. As for Blood himself, he is a superman, compounded of a sardonic humor, cold nerves, and hot temper. Both the story and the man are masterpieces. A great figure, a great epoch, a great story.
THE SEA-HAWK
“The Sea-Hawk” is a book of fierce bright color and amazing adventure through which stalks one of the truly great and masterful figures of romance.
SCARAMOUCHE
Never will the reader forget the sardonic Scaramouche, who fights equally well with tongue and rapier, who was “born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.”
GROSSET & DUNLAP,Publishers, NEW YORK
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.