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Andrews could see the sweat rolling down his cheek as he spoke. "Christ, that poor beggar's been havin' a time, Andy. We was 'askeert to get a doctor, and we all didn't know what to do." "I got some pure alcohol an' washed it in that. It's not infected. I guess it'll be all right." "Where are you from, Al?" asked Andrews. "'Frisco. Oh, I'm goin' to try to sleep.
When Dorothy at last opened her eyes she looked into the most terrifying face she had ever seen, and, as the lids closed again spasmodically, a moan came from her lips. Turk's bristled face was covered with blood that had dried hours ago, and he was a most uncanny object to look upon. "Darn me, she's askeert of my mug! I'll duck ontil you puts her nex'." "Look up Dorothy! It is Phil!
I wisht Clay had popped a hole in Daviess, jest like Burr did in Hamilton. Why didn't they fight? They say Daviess sent a challenge. Wonder why that dool 'tween Jo and Harry never come off?" Hadley shrugged his shoulders. "That gits me," continued Jim. "Reckon it were a case of one askeert and an' t'other da'sn't, eh, Hen?" "Skeert nothin'!" mumbled the backwoodsman. "Clay's a dead shot."
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