--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Nordgran, Weston N. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 31 number: 1 published: 1927-11 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Weston N. Nordgran, “Smoke Rings,” *Improvement Era* 31, no. 1 (November 1927): 37–40." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3101unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera3101unse start_page: 37 end_page: 40 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1927-11) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3101unse publication_year: 1927 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1927, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Smoke Rings Smoke Rings By Weston N. Nordgran LONG, slim fingers, tobacco-stained, a dirty, yellow-brown, searched vainly in a greasy pocket. Finding no matches, the fingers ranged upwards to a thin wood shelf above. A light sputtered forth, and with a great intake of air and smoke, Ken Driscoll lit his "fag." A smile of peace seemed to reflect the red glow, in the summer twilight. And with the cigaret bobbing up and down in his mouth, Ken addressed his horse. "Well, Kid, old boy," he spoke softly, patting the horse's mane caressingly, "as soon as you finish those oats, we'll saddle up and go see the missus! Uh huh! That's the very thing we'll do!" He removed the cigaret deftly with two well trained fingers, and spat from cracked lips, stained a dull brown. A door slammed. Swift strides coming in his direction, brought Ken to the corral gate. Harry Gordon, owner of the Bar K ranch, stepped up. "Take these signs and tack them up in the most prominent places you can find, first thing in the morning. Don't forget!" He eyed Ken sharply, wheeled, and was gone. Ken looked at the bundle of metal sheeting he held in his hand. Undoing the burlap cover- ing, he looked at the plates. He knew he was not in the habit of forgetting his orders — in fact only once had he done so. But at the first glance he turned pale. Again, unbelieving, he looked at the signs. Then standing squarely in the light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse, he stared a third time! Smoking Positively Forbidden On These Premises His cigaret dropped from nerveless fingers, unheeded, to sizzle out on the wet sand. No smoking! And he. Ken Driscoll, smoked! A flash of anger surged through his brain like molten lava. Grim joke this, Gordon picking on him to fire himself, or — quit smok- ing. He realized in that instant the meaning of the talk Harry had given him when he hired him, two years before. Snatches of it scorched through his memory, at sight of the blue and white signs. "My boy, I like your looks. I've got a job over here I think you'll like. But remember, no one who smokes can ever become 38 IMPROVEMENT ERA a foreman of my ranch. No one who smokes can ever become my business partner. I want a man who is the master of himself, and not one who is chained by a cigaret to the grave. Intelligence counts — not rings of smoke! A man who smokes has more 'pull' than push! He is banking nothing but nicotine for the future! He drags a coffin with him wherever he goes! His backbone is nothing but a cigaret! His nerve is wishy-washy fibreless trash, floating on a dream sea of smoke!" At that time, Ken had felt mighty uncomfortable under the tirade, but had put it down to the fact that a cigaret smoker six months previously had carelessly set fire to a stack of grain, owned by Harry Gordon. He had been careful. No lighted matches thrown around. All cigaret butts stamped out. And now this blow. He hurriedly dropped the metal plates, grabbed the saddle from its peg on the wall, and saddled up furiously. He wanted air! Sudden thoughts came crowding down upon his mind, beating at his smoke- laden senses like huge bats — crowding; — crushing — As the hoofbeats of Kid died out in the distance, a quick wind snuffed out the first faintly glowing stars. Mountainous clouds, black, dismal, pregnant with rain, spread like hot grease over the sky. The air became heavy, stuffy, unbreathable. Like great wads of cotton, the combined forces of nature deadened and absorbed the earth's sounds. All was quiet as death. Ken dashed on, lashing his horse, in a frenzy of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He cared not whither he rode — he needed to think — and his brain was clouded with a thick haze of cigaret smoke. Kid, ever obedient and faithful, came to a jolting halt in front of a distant ranch house, after miles of sweat-lathered gallop- ing. Mechanically, Ken reeled from his mount and started towards the door. At his knock, Ruth gave a glad cry, and opened the heavy door. Then fear clutched at her heart! Ken's face was a pasty white. His eyes looked dark and cold, and his nervous hands shook. She started back with a cry, and then as Ken swallowed, and tried to speak, she flung herself to him, and pushed him into a huge rocker. "What's the matter, Ken?" Swiftly she closed and bolted the door. "Someone after you?" She reached for the rifle. "No." Ken breathed a sigh of relief. "Nothing's wrong, except I've got to leave my job." His voice was cold and tired. Then he told her. Told her of the signs; of the talk two years before; of what it meant; of the power of the drug on his system: of the fact that now Milton Decker, foreman of the Bar K, was going to Chicago to school, that a new man would take up the SMOKE RINGS 39 duties of foreman. He told her of his secret hope to be that man — and of the bar sinister in his way — a glowing cigaret! In hopeless despair, he gazed at his hands. "Stained,'' he said. "Stained by nicotine." He looked up into the eyes of Ruth. "I can't ask you to marry me now," he gritted through unwilling teeth. "I can't quit. I've tried before. and I know it's hopeless. I'll lose my job and — -sift out of the country. My soul — if I've got a soul, like that preacher in Lead- ville used to say — my soul is stained, too!" He stood up, backed to the door and reached for the knob. "Ken! You can't go this way! You can't!" Ruth Daynes' words bit into his throbbing intellect. "You've no right to give up everything for that weed! I want you! You want me! Both of us are concerned in this! — you can't quit!" She grasped at his shoulders, as a drowning man grasps for the tiniest straw of hope. "It's ruined your reason," she went on, growing calmer and a trifle scornful. "Don't let it ruin your soul! Ken! Are you will- ing to let Tobacco leave its thumb-prints on your soul, as it has done on your brain? Be a man! Cut it out! Quit the dirty habit, and — keep your job!" She closed her eyes, and cheeks flushed, she sagged against him. Ken straightened up. Deliberately he pushed Ruth away, and steadily unbolted the door and vanished into the night. Ruth sank into the chair Ken had vacated. "Dear God," she whispered, "help our love to fight for him!" As he stumbled through the rain, Ken's mind was a whirl- pool of strife. Never before had such a momentous decision been thrust into his hands. Searing hot, like the blaze of lightning that ripped and cracked overhead, came the realization of what he was up against. On one hand, Ruth, his job, promotion, a home, and — happiness! On the other hand, tobacco, smoke rings, false dreams, loss of work, and — misery! He halted by the gate, and bared his head to the elements. The dark streaming rain fell over him like a mantle, closing the past, and opening the future to his eager sight. Bursts of lightning clashed about him; ponderous roars of thunder greeted his ears. Kid was gone; scared by the lightning. no doubt. And thus, twenty miles later, as the sun rimmed the morning horizon and tinted the clouds with gold and rose, Ken had reached his decision. Kid was standing patiently by the old corral gate, waiting to be unsaddled. A broken rein, dangling on his neck, gave evidence of his method of escape. Ken walked up to him, unsaddled and un- bridled him and turned the truant beast into the corral. With a smile on his face he dug deep into his back pocket, extracted a pack- age of cigarets, found a match, and — set the package afire. He then 40 IMPROVEMENT ERA stepped into the house, to return with hammer and nails. Stooping, he picked up the package of plates and strode to the spot where curling smoke rings of blue slowly arose from the burning package of cigarets. Over the spot, on the high pole fence, he tacked a sign. He glanced again at the burning wreck of "coffin nails." "There," he said. "There you are. Read that sign! "Smok- ing positively forbidden, on these premises." That means you are banished, Lady Nicotine! Here's where you get yours!" He thrust his foot on the dying remains and ground them into the dirt. Plates under his arm, he started toward the far end of the corral. A voice stopped him. He wheeled to a halt, and stood facing Harry Gordon. "I heard what you sa.id," remarked the latter, "and I saw what you did! My lad, I'm proud of you! You don't have to tell me you won't smoke again! I know it!" He thrust out his hand cordially. Ken gave it a hearty shake. "Thanks, Harry," he said. His steel-grey eyes looked steadily into the blue ones of his employer. "The storm is over. The smoke rings are gone." "Milt is going on the noon train, Ken. I wish you'd hitch up your roan team and take him over." Harry turned toward the house. "Sid is our new foreman." Ken's heart sank. Sid Crowner promoted over his, Ken's head! But again the boss was speaking. "While you're in town, Ken, get a new rig for yourself. I looked over your other one in the bunkhouse, and it isn't fit for my partner to wear!" "Partner!" gasped Ken. "Yes, certainly." Harry slapped his companion heartily on the back. "I'm taking you in on a fifty-fifty basis — your brains, my cash! You can pay as you earn, and I'll give you fifty per- cent more than Sid will get. You can run the ranch in Stillwell Basin, and — as I said, everything above expenses goes fifty-fifty!" "Harry!" The word burst forth from Ken. All the longings of a lifetime fulfilled! Visions of Ruth, a home, a partnership with Harry, arose. He gripped the hands of the older man in a vice of steel hands — steady hands — purposeful hands. And the other responded as heartily. A sudden twinge told Ken he had not smoked since the night before. His thoughts glared down the drug messenger: "No more nicotine," they told it. And then and there began the battle which Ken waged unceasingly until in time, drawn and haggard, but triumphant, he wiped out the last cobweb of the habit from his brain, and stood forth a free man; clean, courageous; the winner in the battle with the invisible electric forces of the smoke rings!