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Updated: June 22, 2025
There was a visiting curate, a frightened little man at the other side of one poodle; in an effort to be at ease he offered the wheezing creature a bit of bread. "Don't feed my dogs!" snapped the old lady. "I don't allow anybody to feed my dogs!" And then there was the Honourable Reginald Annersley, the youngest son of the family, home from Eton on vacation.
He felt nothing save the burning ache in his throat and a hope that the sheriff would arrest the men who had killed his pop. He had great faith in the sheriff, who, as Annersley had told him, was the law. The law punished evildoers. The men who had killed pop would be hung Pete was sure of that! Hatless, burning with fever and thirst, he arrived at the store in Concho late in the afternoon.
I ain't lookin' for Gary even if he did shoot down Pop Annersley nor I ain't tryin' to keep out of his way. I'm ridin' this country and I'm like to meet up with him 'most any time. That's all." "Shucks, Pete! You forget Gary. He sure ain't worth gettin' hung for. Gary ain't goin' to put you down so long as you ride for the Concho. He knows somebody 'd get him.
The sweet, acrid fragrance of cedar smoke, the feel of the wind upon his face, the contented munching of his pony, the white radiance of the stars that came quickly, and that indescribable sense of being at one with the silences, awakened memories of many an outland camp-fire, when as a boy he had journeyed with the horse-trader, or when Pop Annersley and he had hunted deer in the Blue Range.
The distant, flat report of the shot broke the silence, fired more in the hope of intimidating Annersley than anything else, yet the man who had fired it must have known that there was but one place in the brush from where the window could be seen and to that extent the shot was premeditated, with the possibility of its killing some one in the cabin.
So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pair of shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader and finally located that worthy drinking at Tony's Place. Young Pete, as usual, was in camp looking after the stock. The trader accompanied Annersley to the camp. Young Pete, sniffing a customer, was immediately up and doing.
This was indeed revenge to hear some one tell the trader what he was, and without the fear of a beating. "I'll go with you," said Pete. "Wait till I git my blanket." "Don't you touch nothin' in that wagon!" stormed the trader. "Git your blanket, son," said Annersley. The horse-trader was deceived by Annersley's mild manner. As Young Pete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him.
"Pah! no matter, give me her answer," and the gentleman held out a slim white hand. "She had no time to write, sir," said the man, "but she bid me tell you " "Damnation!" exclaimed the gentleman, glancing towards the inn, "not here, come further down the lane," and with the word he turned and strode away, with the man at his heels. "Annersley," said Barnabas, as he watched them go; "Annersley."
And they's no use gettin' started that way. They's plenty as would like to see Gary bumped off but I don't want to be the man to do it. Suppose Gary did lead that raid on ole man Annersley? That's over and done. Annersley is dead. You're livin' and sure two dead men don't make a live one. What's the good o' takin' chances like that?" "I dunno, Andy.
"He was the man who gave you your brother's letter in Annersley Wood." "Yes I remember in the wood." "Where I found you lying quite unconscious." "Where you found me yes." "Lying quite unconscious!" "Yes," she answered, beginning to hasten her steps again. "And where you left me without telling me your name or even asking mine." "For which I blamed myself afterwards," said Barnabas.
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