of

little education in the public schools of that State. Sentenced to a prison term at eighteen for some petty robbery, he had escaped from custody and had fled to the mountains of Northern Mexico. There he had joined a band of desperadoes, among whom his cunning and audacity had finally won for him the position of chief with the title "The Captain." Still a young man and endowed with a bold sort beauty, he was inordinately vain and fond of bedecking himself in the most extravagant manner. His rich sombreros were rumored to have cost fabulous sums, his embroidered jackets were marvels of workmanship, and his gay sashes were the finest and glossiest of silk. Proud of his fluent English, he employed that language on every possible occasion, even in intercourse with his band, falling back on his mother tongue, for which he seemed to have a strange aversion, only when absolutely necessary.

The bandits who had formerly confined their activities to the capture of a few sheep or cattle and the waylaying of an occasional traveler had, since the accession of El Capitan, increased their depredations to an alarming extent. All attempts at rounding up the band as a whole having come to nothing, the authorities of Juarez had decided to direct their efforts towards the apprehension of El Capitan himself. It was known that in his various daring operations he was often separated from his followers, and his capture might be reasonably supposed if not to disrupt the band completely, at least to limit its depredations to their old proportions. Such, then, was the task which Juan Valera, solely on the strength of a winning horse, proposed to accomplish.

It was not long after dawn the next morning when Juan Valera, armed with his battered rifle, stole out of the sleeping town and took the trail which winds up the mountain side. At the last moment he had felt some misgivings about setting out alone, and had half decided to solicit the services of one or more of his friends, but the

thought of having to divide the five hundred pesos whetted his courage and fortified him in his determination to capture his prey single handed. He had formed no plan of campaign and had no clue to El Capitan's whereabouts except that he was rumored to have been recently lurking among the mountains near Juarez; but with a sublime reliance on the resources of his own luck, he climbed resolutely up the steep trail, holding his gun at an angle which, in event of its being discharged by a chance stumble, would inevitably have blown his brains out.

For several hours Juan wandered about, clambering over obstacles and occasionally dodging behind a convenient rock at the sound of imaginary footsteps. The sun was high now, and it had grown uncomfortably warm. Juan, who had neglected to bring a flask, was consumed with thirst, while his courage and his belief in his luck alike were slowly evaporating. Suddenly the confused sound of voices made him start, and peering cautiously over a huge rock, a sight met his eyes which sent the blood in a sudden rush to his heart.

On the slope of the mountain some distance away was a band of Mexicans. They were picturesquely dressed and fully armed. There seemed to be a great many of them, but Juan's eyes, sweeping the party in a hasty glance, fastened themselves instinctively on a bold looking, wildly handsome man in a particularly elegant sombrero, velvet jacket and crimson sash. Even at that distance Juan could not fail to verify the description of El Capitan. The flowing mustache, the rich costume-there could be no doubt of his identity, but how could one man armed only with a rusty rifle hope to intimidate an entire band of desperadoes and capture their leader?

The blur of voices grew fainter and another hasty peep apprized Juan that the band was moving away in the opposite direction. Only one thought remained with him-to get back to Juarez in safety and with all possible

speed. However, he dared not risk discovery by setting out immediately, and for some time longer he crouched in his hiding place.

At length, judging that the bandits must be quite out of sight and hearing over the top of the ridge, he was rising cautiously to his feet when the crunch of approaching footsteps sent him cowering back again. A moment late, an imposing figure advanced along the trail, and with a thrill Juan recognized the object of his quest. Except for a pearl-handled revolver stuck jauntily in his red sash, he was unarmed, and, walking slowly with eyes fastened on the ground as if searching for something he did not for the instant observe the crouching form in the shadow of the big rock.

It was a critical moment, but Juan's star was again in the ascendant. At sight of the desperado alone before him, all his confidence returned in a flash, and the next instant the newcomer found himself gazing into the muzzle of a battered but deadly looking rifle held in the hands of a determined little Mexican.

"No talk," commanded Juan, who out of deference for El Capitan's known preference for that language, drew on his scanty stock of English for this admonition.

His injunction was answered by a fierce torrent of eloquence, the context of which was quite beyond Juan's comprehension.

"No talk," he repeated, this time with so significant a movement of his rifle that the warning was heeded.

Without further protest, the captive set off down the trail indicated by Juan, while that favorite of fortune. brought up the rear, picturing to himself his triumphal entry into Juarez and pondering various agreeable ways of disposing of five hundred pesos.

*

The manager of the "Star Moving Picture Company" was lounging comfortably in the lobby of the Del Norte Hotel in El Paso late that same afternoon when he was accosted by Stacy, his "heavy."

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"Seen anything of Mack lately, Murray?"

"No," returned the manager, carelessly, "I haven't seen him since I left you fellows on the other side this morning. I suppose he's up in his room pawing over those weeds he's so dippy about."

"No, he isn't," said the other. "I've just come from there. Fact is, Murray, I'm a little uneasy about Mack. You see, he left the crowd over on the Mexican side soon after you did this morning. Said he wanted to go back to hunt for some flowers he'd seen and wanted for his collection. Nobody seems to have seen him since."

"Oh, he'll turn up all right," asserted the manager, easily. "Mack's quite able to take care of himself, although why a first class movie actor wants to drag a lot of dried flowers and weeds around the country with him is more than I can make out."

"Well, I'm not so sure about his turning up," responded Stacy, ignoring the manager's deprecating allusion to the hobby of his leading man. "You remember Emory told us this morning that a gang of desperadoes was loose in the mountains across the river and warned us not to go too far. Of course, Mack wouldn't consider a little thing like a desperado when there was 'a specimen in question, but it's my belief they've got him."

A shrill cry of "'Phone call, Mr, Murray," cut short the manager's reply, and a trifle alarmed at Stacy's gloomy forebodings, he hurried off to answer the call.

When he emerged from the booth a few minutes later all sign of alarm had completely vanished, and he was grinning broadly.

"That's going to be some film, that Mexican one, Stacy," he asserted complacently. "That costumer I got hold of certainly knows his business."

"Yes, yes," returned Stacy impapatiently, "but about Mack?"

"It's him I was talking to," said the manager. "The bandits didn't find him, but that get-up of his was SO dashed realistic that he's been roped

T

HIS is not a story, it is rather a fragment, beginning where usually a battle story ends, with a man being "casualtied," showing the principal character in a passive part-and ending, I am afraid, with a lot of unsatisfactory loose ends ungathered up. I only tell it because. I fancy that at the back of it you may find some hint of the spirit that has helped the British Army in many a tight corner.

Private Wally Ruthven was knocked out by the bursting of a couple of bombs in his battalion's charge on the front line German trenches. Any account of the charge need not be given here, except that it failed, and the battalion making it, or what was left of them, were beaten back. Private Wally knew nothing of this, knew nothing of the renewed British bombardment, the renewed British attack half a dozen hours later, and again its renewed failure. All this time he was lying where the force of the bomb's explosion had thrown him, in a hole blasted out of the ground by a bursting shell. During all that time he was unconscious of anything except pain, although certainly he had enough of that to keep his mind very fully occupied. He was brought back to agonizing consciousness by the hurried grip of strong hands and a wrenching lift that poured liquid flames of pain through every nerve in his mangled body. To say that he was badly wounded hardly describes the case; an R. A. M. C. orderly afterwards described his appearance with painful picturesqueness as "raw meat on a butcher's block," and indeed it is doubtful if the stretcher-bearers who lifted him from the shell hole would not rather

an

have left him lying there and given their brief time and badly needed services to a casualty more promising of recovery, if they had seen at first Private Ruthven's serious condition. As it was, one stretcher bearer thought and said the man was dead, and was for tipping him off the stretcher again. Ruthven heard that and opened his eyes to look at the speaker, although at the moment it would not have troubled him much if he had been tipped off again. But the other stretcherbearer said there was still life in him, and partly because the ground about them was pattering with bullets, and the air about them clamant and reverberating with the rush and roar of passing and exploding shells and bombs, and that particular spot, therefore, no place or time for argument, partly because stretcher bearers have a stubborn conviction and fundamental belief-which, by the way, has saved. many a life even against their own momentary judgment-that while there is life there is hope, that a man "isn't dead till he's buried," and finally that a stretcher must always be brought in with a load, a live one if possible, and the nearest thing to alive if not, they brought him in.

The stretcher bearers carried their burden into the front trench and there attempted to set about the first bandaging of their casualty. The job, however, was quite beyond them, but one of them succeeded in finding a doctor, who in all the uproar of a desperate battle was playing Mahomet to the mountain of such cases as could not come to him in the field dressing station. The orderly requested the doctor to come to the casualty, who was so badly wounded that "he near came

within arm's length of him as he worked at the moment, said that he would come as soon as he could, and told the orderly in the meantime to go and bandage any minor wounds his casualty might have. The bearer replied that there were no minor wounds, that the man was "just nothing but one big wound all over," and as for bandaging, that he "might as well try to do first aid on a pound of meat that had run through a mincing machine." The doctor at last, hobbling painfully and leaning on the stretcher bearerfor he himself had been twice wounded, once in the foot by a piece of shrapnel, and once through the tip of the shoulder by a rifle bullet-came to Private Ruthven. He spent a good deal of time and innumerable yards of bandage on him, so that when the stretcher bearers brought him into the dressing station there was little but bandages to be seen of him. The stretcher bearer delivered a message from the doctor that there was very little hope, so that Ruthven for the time being was merely given an injection of morphia and put aside.

The approaches to the dressing station and the station itself were under so severe a fire for some hours afterwards that it was impossible for any ambulance to be brought near it. Such casualties as could walk back walked, others were carried slowly and painfully to a point which the ambulances had a fair sporting chance of reaching intact. One way and another a good many hours passed before Ruthven's turn came to be removed. The doctor who had bandaged him in the firing line had by then returned to the dressing station, mainly because his foot had become too painful to allow him to use it at all. Merely as an aside, and although it has nothing to do with Private Ruthven's case, it may be worth mentioning that the same doctor, having cleaned, sterilized and bandaged his wounds, remained in the dressing station for another twelve hours, doing such work as could be ac

a sound and an unsound arm. He saw Private Ruthven for a moment as he was being started on his journey to the ambulance; he remembered the case, as indeed everyone who handled or saw that case remembered it for many days, and, moved by professional interest and some amazement that the man was still alive, he hobbled from his chair to look at him. He found Private Ruthven returning his look, for the passing of time and the excess of pain had by now overcome the effects of the morphia injection. There was a hauntingly appealing look in the eyes that looked up at him, and the doctor tried to answer the question he imagined those appealing eyes would have conveyed.

"I don't know, my boy," he said, "whether you'll pull through, but we'll do the best we can for you. And now we have you here we'll have you back in the hospital in no time, and there you'll get every chance there is."

He imagined the question remained in those eyes still unsatisfied, and that Ruthven gave just the suggestion of a slow head-shake.

"Don't give up, my boy," he said, briskly. "We might save you yet. I'm going to take away the pain for you," and he called an orderly to bring a hypodermic injection. While he was finding a place among the bandages to make the injection, the orderly who was waiting spoke: "I believe, sir, he's trying to ask something or say something.”

It has to be told here that Private Ruthven could say nothing in the terms of ordinary speech, and would never be able to do so again. Without going into details it will be enough to say that the whole lower part of-well, his face was tightly bound about with bandages, leaving little more than his eyes clear. He was frowning now, and again just shaking his head to denote a negative, and his left hand, bound to the bigness of a football in bandages, moved slowly in an endeavor to push aside the doctor's hands.

"It's all right, my lad," the doctor