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It was a smallish, mouse-coloured mule that emerged at length to view and it looked even smaller than it was because the man who straddled it dwarfed it with his own ponderous stature and a girth which was almost an anomaly in a country of raw-boned gauntness. The big man slid down, and his thick neck and round face were red and sweat-damp though the day was young and cool.
"I'm goin' to let it go over to-night," she faltered. Then she laid a stiff hand on her husband's sweat-damp sleeve. "Tom Drake," she gulped, "I'm afraid me an' you are facin' the greatest trouble we've ever had." "What's wrong now?" he asked, swift visions of moonshine stills, armed officers, and grim court officials flashing before him. Haltingly she explained the situation.
"You really made it," Hovan assured him. "Rest easy now. As soon as Channath and Dr. Jason stop the bleeding, they will give you something for your pain. And when you recover, what a party the clan will have!" "Clan party . . ." Tarlac managed a faint smile, his thoughts starting to drift. "Tha'd be nice . . ." "Later, Steve." Hovan smiled too, pushing sweat-damp hair away from the man's face.
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