Sundown by Virginia Harris Author Virginia Harris is one of the pieces of luck that Wyoming sent down to Weber. She is a sophomore this year, and will be remembered by the rest of the upper class by her stories of last year. This is her second year on the "Scribulus" staff, and we expect some fine work from her. Never shall I forget the last time I saw him, an old man dozing in the glow of a tired fire. I must have seen him that way a thousand times before, yet there was something different about him now. The moment I stepped through the swinging doors of the Ramshorn I felt it. Something was wrong. I had expected a room full of excited lodgers eagerly awaiting my arrival, but the tavern was deserted save for me and the old gentleman. Of course the storm might have delayed some of them, but it was strange that at least a few weren't here to greet me. Wine and re-election were to have been my rewards if the bill passed. Surely they had not forgotten so quickly. For a moment I fancied they might have already come and gone. The hours was getting late. Shan might have told them yet how could he know I had the governor's promise that I should be the first to know his decision. At last it had come. Just a note: "Regret to inform you I find it necessary to veto your bill;" yet it meant everything, My years of planning and dreaming, months of tiresome research. These last few weeks of plotting and scheming, all were lost. Civilization was reaching out but ignorance was forcing it back. Perhaps Shan was right. A highway would be expensive and very difficult to build; yet if Sundown were to survive we must have roads, good roads to carry in supplies. Men were no longer content to spend their lives in one God-made spot as the pioneers who built Sundown had. Those frontiersmen had been satisfied with a simple life, shutting out by indifference all the complications that came with progress. As long as there were men like Shan to fight it, no one would ever change their little heaven, though it crumbled and decayed. Somehow I almost hated the old gentleman by the fireplace, for it was he who had blocked every plan I made. Rolling from legislators to lobbyist in his wheel chair, he had made a sure thing doubtful with facts, figures, and the most deadly of all political weapons, common sense. When the appropriation passed both chambers, I breathed a deep sigh, for the bill needed only the governor's signature to become law. But Shan was not to be defeated so easily. He played his last card the ace of spades. I had almost forgotten that the governor and Shan had ever met. But Shan had not. How could he forget? Every time his stubbed fingers touched the hard rubber on the wheel of his chair, whenever the mountain winds tugged and pulled the upper branches of the pines and covered the "quakers" with drifts of white velvet, he could remember. I recalled the vivid picture of a young man bending over a shivering bundle, wrapped in a heavy sheepskin coat. He was speaking to a man in shirt sleeves beside him. "She's going to be all right, isn't she?" The other nodded and he continued: "Oh, what a fool I was to ever bring her here, but she did so want to try her luck with a rifle. I never dreamed she'd wander off like that. If you hadn't faced that razing hell Page Sixteen to find her she'd be Oh, Shan! Shan, if there is ever anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask me." A smile crept over the face of Shan, as he crumbled to the floor. Dawn had broken before he gave any sign of life. No one thought he had a chance but he did live, though he spent the rest of his life in a wheel chair. Somehow as the years rolled by, we grew to love the crippled philosopher who helped Hilda run the tavern. Never an evening went by that his chair was not surrounded by young and old, eagerly awaiting his tales of the old west. He was a father to everyone who passed his way. But he was more; he was the spirit and soul at Sundown. I stepped forward to speak to him now, seated in his chair, but I hadn't the heart to disturb him. He seemed so old and tired, and yet so peaceful. I had a great respect for the old fellow though he looked like he belonged on an illustrated page of my early American History book. There were rough cracks in the leather tops of his rubber soled boots. The leather thongs he used for boot laces had long since traded their buck skin tan for one of much darked hue. Out of each boot protruded a yellow grey sock. Shan's pants were tucked into them with surprising smoothness just as they had been for years. For, I dare say, that style of trouser had not been manufactured since the turn of the century. Before me was a picture that no writer, painter or photographer could reproduce. A picture of the old west the real west. I rapped on the door leading to the back rooms, softly at first, then irritated by the lack of response, I pounded harder on it. No answer. I leaned back against the bar to wait. Perhaps I had been a bit overanxious. I had lost, but I wasn't sorry; in fact I was almost glad. All my election promises were forgotten, the old prejudices were all erased. I was home and I was happy. It would be impossible to say how long I stood there dreaming before Hilda puffed in. "Sorry I kept you waiting so long, led, but I just can't get used to Shan's not being here to let me know when the fellows come in." Evidently I expressed my surprise, for she paused and asked, "You didn't know?" "Know what?" I answered. "You see, Jed," she explained. "He just died this morning and none of the fellows felt much like celebrating. Hope you don't mind too much. Aw, I know what you're thinking; it is awful to leave a corpse around like that, but I just can't bear to move him till the coroner comes." I placed the drink she had given me back onto the bar, and walked out into the storm. Page Seventeen