Cinders
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Just for a Laugh,” “Sun-Dog Loot,” etc.
James Worthington Steele was a man of importance. In the affairs of the C. M. & G. Railroad he was E pluribus unum, XXXX, bottled in bond; which is quite some label in these Volsteadian days.
To Mrs. James Worthington Steele, a lady of great avoirdupois, he was a fair pinochle player. Not good—just fair. To Alicia Worthington, the daughter, he was something to depend upon in a financial way.
Alicia might be branded a vampire. Not that Alicia was bad. Oh, dear, no—not at all. But she knew that she was pretty, had wicked eyes and wore beautiful creations. Alicia would scorn to wear just clothes.
But even an important railroad magnate hankers for the untrammeled spaces of the great outdoors at times; and this was why James Worthington Steele’s private car, the Lake Louise, was parked near a California lake, where the trout jumped almost off the pages of the railroad folders.
And it was here that a message came to James Worthington Steele, advising that he come at once to straighten out a tangle, which greatly affected the interests of his company. Unfortunately the passenger service on this particular branch of the C. M. & G. was not too good. The train had left about thirty minutes prior to the telegram; so it was up to James Worthington Steele to have the Lake Louise hooked to the rear end of a freight train, which would take him out to the main line. This especial freight train seemed to have been made up of all the decrepit rolling-stock owned by the aforementioned railroad; so their progress was not very swift.
And it was hot in the Lake Louise. To make matters worse for James Worthington Steele, Mrs. Steele insisted that they play pinochle. And when Mrs. Steele insisted, there was nothing for James Worthington to do but agree.
Alicia was bored to distraction. This was not her idea of a good time. She had been communing with nature too long for one of her disposition. She wanted some one to make eyes at, except a perspiring brakeman, who swore openly at everything connected with the railroad business.
And with everybody in this pleasant mood, the train jerked to a stop at the station of San Rego. The train drew up far enough for the observation platform of the Lake Louise to stop midway of the station platform. Alicia lolled in an easy chair, mumbled at some sodden chocolates and wished she was far away from San Rego.
Suddenly she sat up.
But that is getting along too far in the story. “Slim” Simpson weighed exactly two hundred and twenty pounds. He was twenty-two years of age—and in love. He had been a perfectly good cowpuncher until the love-bug inoculated his emaciated form; but now he was worthless for anything—except love.
Sadie Thompson was the maid of his choice. Sadie’s pa was proprietor, or rather station-agent at San Rego. He owned a little home on the outskirts of San Rego, with honeysuckle, or something like that, around the door.
Sadie was of a jealous and suspicious nature, and she had a sneaking idea that Slim had danced too many times with the school teacher the night before. Anyway, she told Slim that she wouldn’t divide him up with any woman, even if there was enough of him to divide.
Poor Slim had poked his nose to the sky and wailingly assured her that he was “her’n, and only her’n.” But Sadie parted the honeysuckles, or whatever grew about the porch, and sent Slim uptown, pawing his way through a haze of indigo blue.
Slim didn’t want a drink; he wanted solitude. And where may a man find more assorted kinds