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Updated: June 11, 2025
Already Mamie was within a pace of the closed door when a man suddenly pushed Abe Allinson roughly aside, leant his right elbow on the counter, and stood with his face half-turned toward the crowd. It was Buck. His movements had been so swift, so well calculated, that Beasley found himself looking into the muzzle of the man's heavy revolver before he could attempt to defend himself. "Hold on!"
Richard Mott lived but a little way from the town, and on the other side resided the widow of the celebrated Joseph John Gurney. The wittiest Quaker in the town was my neighbor, William J. Allinson, the editor of the "Friends Review," and an intimate friend of John G. Whittier.
They found themselves on the side of a steep mountain, down which they scoured madly, hand linked in hand. But fast as they ran, it was long ere they ceased to hear the tongue of Madam Lucifer. Taken by permission from The Well of St. Claire, by Anatole France, translated by Alfred Allinson. Published, 1909, by John Lane Co., New York. Michael in the Altar-Piece of the Church of St.
Slaney had removed his pipe, and, for the moment, his own troubles were forgotten under a sudden thrill of hope. Curly Saunders sat up as though about to speak, but no words came. Abe Allinson, Ike, and Blue Grass Pete contented themselves with staring their astonishment at the Padre's munificence. Finally Slaney hawked and spat.
I hastened across the street and, in the modest parlor of Friend Allinson, I saw, standing before the fire, a tall, slender man in Quaker dress, with a very lofty brow, and the finest eye I have ever seen in any American, unless it were the deep ox-like eye of Abraham Lincoln.
I heard more than that. I heard the murder was a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they'd be right out fer lynchin' this guy. That's why it's bin kep' quiet. I bin goin' over the folks in my mind to locate the murderer. But it's got me beat." "Ther' ain't bin no murder since the camp got boomin'," said Abe Allinson thoughtfully, "'cept you reckon that racket of Ike an' Pete's."
Then Beasley Melford. He's jest a durned skunk anyways. Don't guess Curly Saunders ain't much account neither. He makes you sick to death around a whisky bottle. Abe Allinson, he's sort o' mean, too. Y' see Abe's Slaney Dick's pardner, an' they bin workin' gold so long they ain't got a tho't in their gray heads 'cept gold an' rot-gut rye. Still, they're better'n the Kid.
"Wonder how she came here?" he said thoughtfully. "Seems as though the storm had kind o' dumped her down," Abe Allinson admitted. Again Beasley chuckled. "Say, was ther' ever such a miracle o' foolishness as you fellers? You make me laff or tired, or something. Wher'd she come from? Ain't the Padre sold his farm?" he demanded, turning on Buck. "Ain't he sold it to a woman?
"That's sure done it fer you, Montana," he cried gleefully. "You make the presentation. I'd say I never heard so elegant a flow of argyment in this yer camp. You'll talk most pretty to the leddy." "An' it ain't fer me to say I can't do it if need be, neither," said Montana modestly. "Don't guess it's much of a stunt yappin' pretty to a sorrel-topped gal." Abe Allinson laughed.
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