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Updated: June 29, 2025
He should see me at a certain point on the ramparts, and, well armed, we also would make our way to Sillery, and from the spot called the Anse du Foulon drift down the river in the dead of night. He promised to do all as I wished. The rest of the day I spent in my room fashioning strange toys out of willow rods.
He took all the precautions that one could, but he knew that in the end these would fail him. The Rutherfords would get him. Of that he had no doubt. They would probably have killed him, anyhow, but he had made his sentence sure when he had shot Anse Rutherford and wounded Eli Schaick ten days ago. That it had been done by him in self-defense made no difference.
He does his killing in an unemotional, unattractive kind of way, with absolutely no regard for costume or setting. Rarely is he a fine figure of a man. Take Anse Dugmore now. He had a short-waisted, thin body and abnormally long, thin legs, like the shadow a man casts at sunup. He didn't have that steel-gray eye of which we so often read.
In fact, the sloop-of-war "Hunter" was anchored in the stream not far off. This time, again, the sentry let them pass. In a few moments they rounded the headland above the Anse du Foulon. There was no sentry there. The strong current swept the boats of the light infantry a little below the intended landing-place.
These Injuns run us in an’ as far as th’ Old Man’s concerned we’re jus’ what everybody claims we is. We’re a coupla saddle bums as is only on th’ loose ’cause we got up earlier an’ owned faster hosses than th’ sheriff! How’d we ever git our saddles slipped ’round so wrong, anyway?" "I did it," Drew said bitterly. "It’s not any of your doin’, Anse.
Don Cazar’s riders do not patrol this far away from the Stronghold. Had it not been that the Pinto causes so much trouble, even we would not be here." "What about the Pinto? If he’s all you say, wouldn’t he try to get at this band?" asked Drew. "No reason if they are saddle stock—no mares among them," Anse said thoughtfully.
"Anse, he was talkin' last night about some Mexican eatin' he did down 'long the border. Made it sound mighty interestin'. Drew, after this war is over and we've licked the Yankees good and proper, why don't we go down that way and see Texas? I'd like to get me one of those wild horses like those Anse's father was catchin'." "We still have a war on our hands here," Drew reminded him.
A dumb, unuttered love for the two shock-headed babies he had left behind in the split-board cabin was the one big thing in Anse Dugmore's whole being bigger even than his sense of allegiance to the feud. "My young uns, Shem?" "Wyatt Trantham took 'em and he kep' 'em he's got 'em both now." "Does he does he use 'em kindly?" "I ain't never heered," said Shem simply.
So Drew and Anse joined the mustangers’ hunting. To Anse this was something he had done before. Drew remembered that the Texan had been working with just such a hunting party when his family had been wiped out by the Comanches in ’59. But to Drew it was a new experience and he was deeply intrigued by what he saw and the reasons for such action.
And Anse Dugmore waited, being minded now to shoot him as he put the bottle to his lips, and so cheat Trantham of his last drink on earth, as Trantham had cheated him of his liberty and his babies as Trantham had cheated those babies of the Christmas fixings which the state's five dollars might have bought. He waited, waited
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