RETRIBUTION By J.M. Demos I killed a man. They say as punishment I, too, must die. And yet, what punishment Is more severe Than in my heart to know I killed a man? UGLINESS AND BEAUTY ARE ONE By Michael Creagor I saw a sand dune once Shifting in the desert wind. Bleached and parched It lay under the burning sun. It was emptiness. Yet in the copper sunset There was beauty In that stretch Of ugliness and nothing. CLOUDS By Edna Miller Clouds are fleecy, funny things .... When we reach for them, they're gone. Like dreams that seem to pass on wings They never stay but soon fly on. SPRING'S RESURRECTION By Michael Creagor The sweet breath of Spring Perfumed the very earth. This was the resurrection Of things long dead. Life was breathed into the grasses As they wormed up through the ground. Sap flowed into the trees, Flowing to the naked buds Who showed their flowered undercoats-. Humming bees swarmed About the dainty pink peach blossoms. The sweet breath of spring Kissed the naked earth. In every place Appeared Spring's resurrection. BACKFIRE (Continued from page 18) and thrust Jeff away with a lusty swing of his arm. Time after time, Jeff tried to unfasten the bag, but his fingers, nimble with many years of training, could not seem to manage the heavy, intricate knot, and the least disturbance aroused the Indian from what soon became only a half-unconscious lethargy. In desperation, Jeff yanked out his pocket-knife and began to saw nervously at the leather thong. Suddenly, Stinking Horse sat up and announced in a thick voice, "My rocks." He remained sitting with his head bobbing gently, but he showed not a sign of again losing consciousness. Maddened by the proximity of so much potential gain, Jeff squeaked in a high, shrill tone, "I'll give you ten dollars for them ten whole dollars!" Stinking Horse lost himself in a momentary revery, then looking up into Jeff's face with all the earnestness of a drunkard, he shook his head slowly from side to side, as if he were moved by clockwork. "I'll give you twenty thirty!" Jeff was quaking with cupidity as his words rose higher and higher, "My God, man, you can have the shop for them!" At Jeff's last screaming declaration, Stinking Horse's head, which had continued to turn from side to side, stopped abruptly. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then he rose and lurched toward the counter. A few cheap, colorful blankets were lying in an untidy pile. He fingered them thoughtfully, while he strained his eyes to examine the mass of small articles carelessly displayed and only dimly visible through the old, yellow glass of the showcase. He stood there, swaying, while his fingers tapped, in time with his meditations, on the counter-top. Then his eyes fell on the old-time cash register at the front of the shop. He raised his hand, and brought his forefinger down with a crash onto one of the keys. The drawer flew open and exposed its empty, rusted compartments. Stinking Horse raised his head, grunted, and said, "Good. We'll trade." He threw the bag on the counter. Jeff snatched it and poured its contents into his hand. There they were, a hundred little green rocks, worth fifteen dollars each. Jeff's brain was an adding machine. Fifteen hundred dollars! A gold mine, no less! He ran to the back of the shop, took an oil can from its crude pine shelf, and poured the contents over one of the stones. It deepened in color from light sea green to a dark olive. Crazy with happiness, Jeff stuffed the turquoises into the bag, took his cap from its hook, and walked out the door with never another word. Stinking Horse, standing straight, with his eyes clear, and an amused smile on his face, again saw Jefferson Davis disappear across the prairie, this time towards the railroad, five miles away. He stepped outside, pulled the shop door to behind him, and walked briskly up the street, past the hill, to the agency, where the soft golden light of the coal-oil mill lamps was just beginning to glow in the early darkness. Harmony Wiggins was smoking a pipe on the porch, with his long legs propped against a wooden pillar. Stinking Horse sat down beside him, and started to roll a cigarette as he remarked, "Well, Mr. Jefferson Davis of Atlanta, Georgia, is gone with your ten dollars worth of turquoises there were a hundred, I believe, at ten cents apiece. I'll give you ten dollars, and keep what I traded them for." Harmony tried to look surprised. "Has my plan worked already? You're better at play-acting than I thought." "I didn't take dramatics at the University for nothing," retorted Stinking Horse with a grin, "I was certainly afraid he'd get wise when I plugged the 'No Sale' button on his cash register." "It's a funny thing," whispered Stinking Horse thoughtfully, as he watched the glowing end of his cigarette, "He missed the only real low mountain turquoise in the bunch, the one that's set in the ring on my finger." Page Twenty-two Page Twenty-three