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"Or do you think we better tie the old son-of-a-gun up and be sure of him?" "Aw," said Happy Jack disgustedly a few minutes later, when the Happy Family had crawled out of their ambush and were feeling particularly foolish. "Nex' time old granny Furrman says Injuns t' this bunch, somebody oughta gag him." "I notice you waited till he'd gone outa hearing before you said that," Luck told him drily.
Luck had told Annie to help Rosemary with the work; but Annie's help, when Luck was not around the place, was, Rosemary asserted, purely theoretical. "And from all you read about Indians," Rosemary complained with a pretty wrinkling of her brows, "you'd think the women just LIVE for the sake of working. I've lost all faith in history, Mr. Furrman.
"I think plenty wire all fold up neat in prop-room. Wagalexa Conka, he all time clean this studio from trash lie around everywhere." "He does, hey?" Applehead's sunburnt mustache bristled like the whiskers of Compadre when he was snarling defiance at the little black dog. The feud was asserting itself. "Well, this here danged place ain't no studio! It's a ranch, and it b'longs to ME, Nip Furrman.
The sheriff had not ridden to Bear Canon expecting to be bullied into civil speech and lengthy explanations; but he knew Applehead Furrman, and he had sufficient intelligence to read correctly the character of the group of men that stood behind Applehead.
Old Applehead Furrman, jogging home across the mesa from Albuquerque, sniffed the soft breeze that came from opal-tinted distances and felt poignantly that spring was indeed here.
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