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Old "Kiowa" Truesdell was reading at a table. "Good-morning, Mr. Truesdell," said Ranse. The old man turned his white head quickly. "How is this?" he began. "Why do you call me 'Mr. When he looked at Ranse's face he stopped, and the hand that held his newspaper shook slightly. "Boy," he said slowly, "how did you find it out?" "It's all right," said Ranse, with a smile. "I made Tia Juana tell me.
No sentimentality there, in spite of the moonlight, the odour of the ratamas, and the admirable figure of Ranse Truesdell, the lover. But she was there, eight miles from her home, to meet him. "How often have I told you, Ranse," she said, "that I am your half-way girl? Always half-way." "Well?" said Ranse, with a question in his tones. "I did," said Yenna, with almost a sigh.
"I told him after dinner when I thought he would be in a good humour. Did you ever wake up a lion, Ranse, with the mistaken idea that he would be a kitten? He almost tore the ranch to pieces. It's all up. I love my daddy, Ranse, and I'm afraid I'm afraid of him too. He ordered me to promise that I'd never marry a Truesdell. I promised. That's all. What luck did you have?"
Say, sport, have you got a coffin nail on you?" Fifty miles had Ransom Truesdell driven that day. And yet this is what he did. Old "Kiowa" Truesdell sat in his great wicker chair reading by the light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh from town at his elbow. "Back, Ranse?" said the old man, looking up.
Bobbsey had telephoned his final message to his office to say that he was about to start. The automobile had been brought around, and Harry Truesdell, who was to drive it back from the station, was waiting. "Come, children, we'll start now!" called Mother Bobbsey. "Get the satchels you are to carry, Nan and Bert. Where are Flossie and Freddie?" she asked. "I want them to take their baskets."
A few months after the State Public School was opened at Coldwater, in charge of Professor Truesdell, superintendent, and Miss Emma A. Hall, matron. I went into the school as seamstress and nurse, and remained there nearly two years.
Say, sport, have you got a coffin nail on you?" Fifty miles had Ransom Truesdell driven that day. And yet this is what he did. Old "Kiowa" Truesdell sat in his great wicker chair reading by the light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh from town at his elbow. "Back, Ranse?" said the old man, looking up.
In those days Truesdell cleaned the brush of many a wolf and tiger cat and Mexican lion; and one or two Curtises fell heirs to notches on his rifle stock. Also he buried a brother with a Curtis bullet in him on the bank of the lake at Cibolo.
George Truesdell, of Washington, D.C.; Mr. George M. Marshall, of Salt Lake City, Utah; and Mr. Joseph Wilmer, of Alexandria Seminary, Va. There is one other name which must not be omitted, that of Mr.
Indeed, the Cibolo ranch-house seemed more of the South than of the West. It looked as if old "Kiowa" Truesdell might have brought it with him from the lowlands of Mississippi when he came to Texas with his rifle in the hollow of his arm in '55.
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