In the Service of Love [pp. 60-64]

Overland Monthly
of their servile condition may develop
catastrophes such as negro slavery produced, thus proving once more that no
nation can mingle divergent races without
paying the penalty in the end. Greed for
money and for political domination may
for a time be successful. But the injustice
of any crime against nature perpetuates
itself, and some day, in one way or
another, there comes a reckoning. No
nation on the face of the earth is wise
enough or good enough to rule another
people, and no people are so ignorant or
so vicious that they can not govern themselves better than others can govern for
them. The greatest evils of slavery were
inflicted upon the masters, and so the
greatest evils of imperialism will afflict the
dominant nations which are to-day adopting the ancient creeds of despotism under
the euphonious name of "beneficent expansion."
IN THE SERVICE OF LOVE
BY JO HATHAWAY
N THE northern part of California
there is a strange volcanic land,
cracked and blanched and dry-a land
of death. In this land there are many unmarked graves, and one, a new one, that
is marked with a wooden slab. On the
slab is a name and a date, and the verse:
"Greater love hath no man than this, that
a man lay down his life for his friend."
"A skull? An Indian skull? On
Jump-off Joe? Then I must have it."
Pete Morris stared. When he was astonished he looked more than ever like an
unbaked pie.
"You must get it for me. No; take
me, and I will get it."
'i What do you want it for?"
"To say my prayers to."
Pete's face changed. He had heard it
whispered that this young woman was an
infidel. The pride of virtue was strong in
these " tule-twisters," who felt themselves
to be the elect of Deity. Luria's laugh
Tang out in derision.
"You can get your own skull," he muttered doggedly.
Luria did not hear him, and he shifted
uneasily. After all, he remembered that
he was a man. He reached for his hat.
"Do you want to go now?" he said
awkwardly.
"Yes; this minute. If the skull's gone
you'11 have to kill an Indian. I must have
one."
They presented a strange picture-the
young woman with her picture-hat and
gypsy hair, small, nervously strung, graceful as a cat, fastidious yet indifferent, with
scornful lips and dreamy eyes, repellent,
almost beautiful; the man, big, blonde,
shambling, work-hardened, yet so young,
with a halt in his gait and a pulsing scar
on his forehead where a horse had kicked
him, broad, powerful, irresolute; behind
them, the gray of the tules and alkali, before them the grim bluffs of Jump-off Joe.
They walked in silence, and the dead
sage-brush crackled beneath their feet.
The man's face was stoical and emotionless. The girl looked around her, and
her breath came in little gasps. It had
never seemed so terrible before, this leprous, white earth, naked and unashamed.
Suddenly she knelt beside a stunted juniper and spread her handkerchief out tenderly on the ground. Her face was white
and drawn.
"What are you doing?"
A smile flickered across her lips.
"Does n't your Bible say to clothe the
naked?" she asked.
"Clothe the naked?" he repeated dully.
And then he understood. The slow anger
mounted to his brow.
"What makes you stay here if you hate
it so?"
"I don't hate it,-I love and pity it."
"It's a poor-man's country, and you
sneer at it. You sneer at our ways and
6o