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Updated: June 18, 2025
They say thar's mor'n one way ter skin a cat, an' Joe never cut his eye teeth yisterday, let me tell yer. Thet gurl's not only white she's got money, scads ov it, and is a good looker. I saw her, an' she's some beaut; Joe ain't passin' up nuthin' like that. I reckon she won't find no chance ter raise a holler fore he's got her tied good an' strong."
"Open up here!" they shouted. Beaut came out of the rooms above the bakery and stood in the empty shop. His mother sat in a chair in her room and trembled. He went to the door and unlocking it stepped out. The miners stood in groups on the wooden sidewalk and in the mud of the road. Among them stood the old crone who had walked beside the horses and shouted at the soldiers.
Hollis voted him a "beaut" after he had ridden him a mile or two and found that he had an easy, steady stride. Together they made a round of the basin, returning to the ranchhouse for dinner.
As an unemployed young man, not much given to chance companionships, Beaut had spent many long evenings wandering alone on the hillsides above his home town. There was a kind of dreadful loveliness about the place at night.
"High, you're the best I ever stacked up against, exceptin' one, and it's right curious that he is just a-ridin' into this powwow. If you want to see what real shootin' is, get him to show you." "I don't know your friend," said High, eyeing the approaching horsemen, "but he's a beaut if he can outshoot you." "Outshoot me?
"How's that?" asked Ben haughtily. "Have you pulled the burs off the chestnuts?" "See here, what do you mean? Are you casting aspersions on my show?" "Not exactly, but I think you've been stung by some old stranded side show that was taking the tie route back home. Circassian beaut! Ho-ho, likewise ha-ha! and some more."
"I'm in on that," said Pringle, rising brightly. "That's my happy chance to join in this lovin' conversation. Speaking about gunmen, I'm a beaut! See that hawk screechin' around up there? Well, watch!" The hawk soared high above. Pringle barely raised Foy's rifle to his shoulder as he fired; the hawk tumbled headlong.
The next evening Beaut sat in the darkness on the steps before the bakery. In his hands he held a hammer. A dull hatred of the town and of the miners burned in his brain. "I will make it hot for some of them if they come here," he thought. He hoped they would come. As he looked at the hammer in his hand a phrase from the lips of the drunken old oculist babbling of Napoleon came into his mind.
Margaret, standing in the darkness before the huge old house in Drexel Boulevard, imagined herself with Beaut McGregor living with him as his wife in a small apartment over a fish market on a West Side street. Why a fish market she could not have said. Edith Carson was six years older than McGregor and lived entirely within herself.
"She had on one of them blue tailor-made things with a lid to match, and a long feather in it," the cabby answered obligingly. "She was pretty as a as a she was a beaut, Cap, sort of skinny, and had all sorts of hair on her head brownish, goldish sort of hair. She was about twenty-two or three, maybe, and and Cap, she was the goods, that's all."
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