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It doesn't matter whether you love me or not, Catherine, I am going to take care of you just the same. Gillispie agrees with me." "Damme, yes," muttered Gillispie, feeling of his hip-pocket for consolation in his old manner. Catherine struggled to find her voice, but it would not come. "Do not speak," whispered John. "Tell me with your eyes whether you will come as my wife or only as our sister."
The day that she announced that she would have no further call to come back, Waite, who was looking after the house while Gillispie was afield, made a little speech. "After this here," he said, "we four stands er falls together. Now look here, there's lots of things can happen to a person on this cussed praira, and no one be none th' wiser.
She was alive just barely alive when Gillispie and Henderson got there, three hours later, the very balls of their eyes almost frozen into blindness. But for an instinct stronger than reason they would never have been able to have found their way across that trackless stretch.
He was half sitting up in his bunk, and Gillispie had just handed him a plate on which two cakes were swimming in black molasses and pork gravy. Henderson looked at it a moment; then over his face came a look of utter despair. He dropped his head in his arms and broke into uncontrolled crying. "Oh, my God, Gillispie," he sobbed, "I shall die out here in this wretched hole! I want my mother.
He was no older than the others, but the lines in his face were deep, and his large mouth twitched as he said: "Hold on here, yeh fools! There's too much blood in you to spill. You'll spile th' floor, and waste good stuff. We need blood out here!" Gillispie bounced to his feet. Henderson arose suspiciously, keeping his eyes on his assailants. "Oh, get up!" cried the intercessor.
Catherine told him. "This is Thanksgiving day," said he. "And we don't know much about praying, but I guess we all have something in our hearts that does just as well." "Damme, yes," said Gillispie, again, as he pensively cocked and uncocked his revolver. A Resuscitation AFTER being dead twenty years, he walked out into the sunshine.
It took a good many miles of sunburnt prairie to afford elbow-room for the three Johns. They met by accident in Hamilton at the land-office. John Henderson, fresh from Cincinnati, manifestly unused to the ways of the country, looked at John Gillispie with a lurking smile. Gillispie wore a sombrero, fresh, white, and expansive.
I says to 'er, 'Yer don't expec' t' git all th' snakes outen this here country, d' yeh? 'Well, she says, 'I'm as good a man as St. Patrick any day. She is a jolly one, Henderson. She tuk me in an' showed me th' kids, and give me a loaf of gingerbread to bring home. Here it is; see?" "Hu!" said Gillispie. "I'm not in it." But for all of his scorn he was not above eating the gingerbread.
Great God, Gillispie, am I going to die without ever seeing my mother?" Gillispie, maddened at this anguish, which he could in no way alleviate, sought comfort by first lighting his pipe and then taking his revolver out of his hip-pocket and playing with it.
Hence there was a close bond of sympathy between all. Happily, the death of young Gillispie was to be the only one to visit our neighborhood. This was especially true of the one-horse politicians, too cowardly to go to the front, and of disgruntled politicians.
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