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THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
_A Novel_
BY
MARVIN DANA
Author of WITHIN THE LAW, etc.
BASED ON THE FAMOUS POEM OF
ROBERT W. SERVICE
PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES
FROM THE PHOTO PLAY
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1915, by
BARSE & HOPKINS
THE ILLUSTRATIONS SHOWN IN THIS EDITION ARE REPRODUCTIONS OF SCENES
FROM THE PHOTO-PLAY OF "THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW"--SCENARIO BY
AARON HOFFMAN--PRODUCED AND COPYRIGHTED BY THE POPULAR PLAYS AND
PLAYERS CO. INC., TO WHOM THE PUBLISHERS DESIRE TO EXPRESS THEIR
THANKS AND APPRECIATION FOR PERMISSION TO USE THE PICTURES.
[Illustration: EDMUND BREESE AND COMPANY IN "THE SHOOTING OF DAN
McGREW."]
THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
Produced by
THE POPULAR PLAYS AND PLAYERS, Inc.
Scenario by
AARON HOFFMAN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jim EDMUND BREESE
Dan McGrew WILLIAM MORSE
Lou KATHRIN ADAMS
Nell BETTY RIGGS
Jack Reeves WALLACE SCOTT
Sam Ward JAMES JOHNSON
The Sheriff JACK AUSTEN
Fingie Whalen JACK MURRAY
Caribou Bill BILL COOPER
Harry, the Dog Man HIMSELF
THE SHOOTING OF DAN McGREW
CHAPTER I
A clatter of hoofs on the gravel of the driveway. A shout from the rider
as he swung himself down from the saddle:
"Lou!"
A woman came swiftly from the cool shadows of the porch into the
brilliance of the summer sunlight, to meet the man who now advanced
toward her with fond, smiling eagerness.
The two kissed very tenderly, for they were lovers still, after seven
years of married life. The delicate rose of the wife's cheeks deepened a
little under the warmth of the husband's caress, and the graciously
curving lips trembled to a smile of happiness as she looked up into the
strong face of the man she loved. In the slightly rugged features, she
read virility and honesty and loyalty. An exquisite contentment pervaded
her. She felt that the cup of joy was brimming. Husband and child and
home--!
Her train of thought was broken by the man's words, spoken quickly in a
tone that mingled curiously amusement and chagrin:
"Dangerous Dan! He's coming, Lou! He's buried the hatchet, and is coming
to visit us. Dangerous Dan McGrew! Now, what do you think of that?" He
waited for an answer, staring quizzically into the suddenly perturbed
face of his wife.
"My rival!" he added whimsically, albeit a bit complacently.
"Never!" the wife declared with emphasis. A note of harshness had crept
into the music of her voice. "Never your rival, Jim, though he tried to
be." The earnestness of utterance gratified the man, in whom a vague,
latent jealousy stirred at thought of that other who had loved where he
loved. But there was no gratification in the new mood of the woman.
Instead, a subtle dread touched her spirit. The contentment of a moment
before was fled. There was nothing precise, nothing formulated, in her
thoughts. Only, something sinister, menacing, pressed upon her. She
welcomed the distraction afforded by her daughter's appearance on the
scene.
The girl came running from the gardens behind the ranch-house and sprang
into her father's arms with a cry of delight.
To her six years, his frequent rides to the village ten miles away were
in the nature of great events, and she welcomed each return as if from
long and perilous voyaging. Moreover, there was always an added thrill
for Nell in her father's home-coming, because of the mysterious charm in
the gift that never failed. To-day, indeed, the present was destined to
mark her life; even to be of vital import in a crisis of distant years.
No hint of the gravity of things-to-be shadowed the radiant joy of the
child's face, as she was lifted in the man's arms and kissed. There was
only vivid anticipation of the gift that would mark this wonderful hour.
James Maxwell lowered his daughter to the ground, with an affirmative
nod toward his wife.
"Now, Nell," he said in a voice of authority, "stand perfectly still,
and keep your eyes shut, and maybe something will happen."
The girl rested uneasily in an effort of obedience, with her eyes
screwed tight-shut, giggling expectantly.
The mother looked on, smiling again, the momentary depression of her
spirit allayed, if not destroyed, by the scene. She met the man's glance
with understanding in the brown, gold-flecked deeps of her eyes. The
father took from a pocket a small leather case, and opened it, and held
up for his wife's inspection the gold chain and pendant locket, set with
an initial _N_ in tiny pearls. The wife nodded her approval.
Straightway, the chain was adjusted about the child's neck, with the
locket hanging low on the slender breast.
"Now!" the father cried sternly.
On the instant, Nell's dark eyes flashed open in swift inquiry to her
father's face, then, following the direction of his gaze, the proud chin
was drawn in, and she stared down rapturously at the trinket lying on
her bosom. Followed little squeals of bliss, then reverent touching of
the treasure. The secret of the catch baffled her, and the father had to
come to the rescue lest patience become too hardly strained. When the
locket had been opened, she stared into it through long seconds in
wordless pleasure. Finally, she spoke in a hushed voice, as if in the
presence of something very sacred.
"It's you, Daddy!" It was a broken whisper of happiness. Her eyes,
lustrous with glad tears, were lifted adoringly to her father's face for
a moment. Then, again, her glance went to the locket.
"And you, Mamma!" she exclaimed, and turned to regard her mother with
equal love. "Oh, it's just beautiful! Pictures of both of you--Daddy and
Momsy!--all my very own!... And may I really, truly wear it?" Nell's
voice was suddenly become timid, infinitely wistful.
The mother answered, as she stooped and kissed her daughter.
"Yes, darling; it's all your very own, to wear every minute, day and
night, if you want to."
Presently, when the intricacy of the locket's catch had been fully
mastered, Nell stole away to her favorite shady nook in the rose-garden,
to be alone with her delight, while husband and wife ascended the steps
of the porch, and seated themselves at ease in the wicker chairs. The
lattice-work of vines shut off the rays of the westering sun. Blowing
over the stretches of lawn, thick-set with shrubberies and studded with
trees, the soft breeze came refreshingly, and bore to the two the
multiple bland aromas of the generous earth. Beyond the green within
which the mansion stood, rolled rich acres of ripening grain that
undulated beneath the gentle urging of the wind in shimmering waves of
gold. The whole scene was one of peace and prosperity, where a fruitful
soil lavished riches in return for the industry of man. The house itself
was a commodious structure, bountifully equipped with the comforts and
elegancies of living; for James Maxwell was, though still a young man,
one who had achieved a full measure of success from out the fertile
fields of the West, and his culture and that of his wife had given to
their home a refinement unusual in regions so remote. Thus far, their
married life had been almost flawless. The wholesomeness and simplicity
of their life together, blessed with the presence of the child, varied
by occasional visits to the larger centers of civilization, had held
them in tranquil happiness. Yet, this afternoon, there lacked something
of the accustomed serenity between the two. Now, the oppression that had
affected the woman at the mention of Dan McGrew returned to her in some
measure, and, by reason of the sympathy between her and him, a
heaviness weighed on his mood as well, though he concealed it as best
he might, even from himself, and spoke with brisk cheerfulness.
"Yes, Lou, Dangerous Dan McGrew is about to descend upon us--handsome as
ever, I suppose, and with all his wiles still working. I can't cease to
wonder, Lou, how I ever came to win you from him." There was a new
tenderness in his voice as he spoke the final words.
The wife laughed softly.
"Don't fish, Jim," she retorted. "You know perfectly well that Dan never
had a chance with me--not really. He was always a fascinating fellow
enough, but, somehow--" She fell silent, a puzzled frown lining the warm
white of her forehead beneath its coronal of golden hair.
"Yes," the husband agreed; "somehow, there is always that 'but' when one
gets to thinking of Dan." He would have added more, but checked himself,
reluctant to speak ill of one who had been his friend, one whom he had
bested in the struggle for a woman's favor.
The wife had no such scruple. She spoke incisively, and her voice was
harsher than its wont.
"I never trusted him," she said. "I always found myself doubting his
honesty."
Thus encouraged, Jim spoke his mind frankly.
"Dan was always as crooked as a dog's hind leg," he declared, without
any trace of bitterness, but as one stating a fact not to be denied.
"He wrote to you?" Lou inquired, with a suggestion of wondering in her
voice.
"No; it was Tom."
Jim thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought
forth an envelope, from which he took out and unfolded a single sheet of
typewritten paper. Then he read the letter:
"_Dear old Chum_:
"Dan McGrew is back again in his old home after five years. He
is coming down to see you and his old sweetheart, Lou. He has
not yet forgiven you for winning her. He seems to have the same
old unsettled disposition and I think he requires the strong
hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path.
"Sincerely your old friend,
"TOM."
"Then you don't know when he will get here?" Lou asked.
Jim shook his head.
"No," he said, rather irritably; "we'll just have to wait for the
visitation to descend upon us, be it sooner or later."
"We shall have to be nice to him, of course," the wife said.
"I'm not specially keen on dry-nursing Dan McGrew," Jim remarked
plaintively. "We were never really intimate, though we were friendly
enough. To tell the truth, Lou, I'm mighty sorry Dan's coming here." His
face was somber as he gazed into his wife's eyes and read in their clear
light sympathy with his own repugnance at the prospect. With an
impatient ejaculation, he sprang to his feet and went into the house,
where he seated himself before the grand piano that occupied the center
of the spacious living-room. In a fierce crashing of dissonances, he
voiced the resentment that was in him. But after a little, indignation
somewhat relieved by such audible interpretation, his fingers flew into
rippling arpeggios, out of which came, at last, a lilting melody,
joyous, yet tender. For Jim Maxwell, lover of music all his days, had a
gift of improvisation, with a sufficient technique for its exercise. To
it he resorted often for the sounding of his deeper moods, and in it
found a never-failing solace. So now, presently, soothed by his own art,
he got up from the piano and went back to the porch, where he faced his
wife, smiling.
Lou smiled in response.
"Thank you, Jim," she said softly. "You scared away all the blue devils
with those dreadful discords. And then you just tempted all sorts of
good fairies to come and hover, and they did. You cheered me up. It's
all right that Dan should come to visit us. Only--"
She broke off, nor did the husband utter any question as to the
uncompleted sentence. But in the hearts of both lurked still something
of the dread which the music had failed entirely to dispel.