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Updated: May 11, 2025
"I wudn't try then," he said shortly. And Mahon remembered that the Inspector had advised the same. When they had been riding a long time the half-breed spoke wistfully. "I wasn't rustlin', Boy. All I did was to take from Duchy and Bilsy some o' the horses they rustled. If I hadn't, yuh wudn't 'a' seed 'em ever again.
The bullet that had brought mistaken mourning to the Police, and particularly to Sergeant Mahon, the friend for whom it was intended, had come within a hair's breadth of avenging Bilsy and Dutch Henry, the Montana rustlers who had hated him so. What he had escaped was due to his wonderful physique and to the untiring care of Mira Stanton.
Sergeant Mahon managed to stifle outward evidence of the thrill that sent his blood tingling. He did not reply. "Don't mangle your brains over it, Boy. You've been in the Police long enough to add two and two." Still no reply. "While you're digesting it, bite on this: Most of the horses Dutch Henry and Bilsy stole last fall are back in their owners' hands." Mahon began to laugh happily.
Look at Bilsy, an' Dutch Henry, an' a bunch more!" He carried the broken rifle to the river's edge and whistled. The dog, now near the opposite shore, turned about. As it approached the clump that hid the halfbreed, ears came forward to assist eyes and nose, and a waggle of welcome told that all was well.
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