From the Valley of the Missing

the Valley of the Missing, by
Grace Miller White

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Title: From the Valley of the Missing
Author: Grace Miller White
Release Date: April 1, 2006 [EBook #18093]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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VALLEY OF THE MISSING ***

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[Illustration: ANN SHELLINGTON ANTICIPATES EVIL.
Frontispiece (Page 276.)]

FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING BY GRACE MILLER
WHITE
AUTHOR OF TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY
ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM THE PHOTO-PLAY
PRODUCED AND COPYRIGHTED BY THE FOX FILM
CORPORATION
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS: NEW YORK
* * * * *
Copyright, 1911, by W. J. WATT & COMPANY
Published, August, 1911
* * * * *
"FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING"
CHAPTER ONE
One afternoon in late October four lean mules, with stringy muscles
dragging over their bones, stretched long legs at the whirring of their
master's whip. The canalman was a short, ill-favored brute, with coarse
red hair and freckled skin. His nose, thickened by drink, threatened the
short upper lip with obliteration. Straight from ear to ear, deep under
his chin, was a zigzag scar made by a razor in his boyhood days, and
under emotion the injured throat became convulsed at times, causing
his words to be unintelligible. The red flannel shirt, patched with colors
of lighter shades, lay open to the shoulders, showing the dark, rough
skin.
"Git--git up!" he stuttered; and for some minutes the boat moved
silently, save for the swish of the water and the patter of the mules' feet
on the narrow path by the river.

From the small living-room at one end of the boat came the crooning of
a woman's voice, a girlish voice, which rose and fell without tune or
rhythm. Suddenly the mules came to a standstill with a "Whoa thar!"
"Pole me out a drink, Scraggy," bawled the man, "and put a big snack
of whisky in it--see?"
The boulder-shaped head shot forward in command as he spoke. And
he held the reins in his left hand, turning squarely toward the scow.
Pushing out a dark, rusty, steel hook over which swung a ragged
coat-sleeve, he displayed the stump of a short arm.
As the woman appeared at the bow of the boat with a long stick on the
end of which hung a bucket, Lem Crabbe wound the reins about the
steel hook and took the proffered pail in the fingers of his left hand.
"Ye drink too much whisky, Lem," called the woman. "Ye've had as
many as twenty swigs today. Ye'll get no more till we reaches the
dock--see?"
To this Lem did not reply. His shrewd eyes traveled up and down the
girlish figure in evil meaning. His thick lips opened, and the swarthy
cheeks went awry in a grimace. Before the hideous spasm of his silent
merriment the woman who loved him paled, and turned away with a
shudder. She slouched down the short flight of steps, and the man, with
a grin, malicious and cunning, lifted the tin pail to his lips.
"It's time for her to go," he muttered as he wiped his mouth, "it's time
for her to go! Git back here, Scraggy, and take this 'ere drink cup!"
This time the woman appeared with a fat baby in her arms.
Mechanically she unloosened the pail from the bent nail on the end of
the pole and put it down, watching the man as he unwound the reins
from the hook. Again the long-eared animals stretched their muscles at
his hoarse command. He paid no more attention to the woman, who,
seated on a pile of planks, was eying the square end of the boat. She
drew a plaid shawl close up under the baby's chin and threaded her
listless fingers through his dark curls. Scraggy's thin hair was drawn

back from her wan face, and her narrow shoulders were bowed with
burdens too heavy for her years; but she hugged the little creature
sleeping on her breast, and still kept her eyes upon the scene. Beyond
she could see the smoke rising from the buildings in the city of Albany,
where they were to draw the boat up for the night. On each side of the
river bank, behind clumps of trees, stood the mansions of those men for
whom, according to Scraggy Peterson's belief, the world had been
made. Finally her