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Updated: June 14, 2025
There's been the devil to pay at young Folsom's place." Dean's face went a shade paler. "What's happened?" he asked. "A dozen of his best horses run off by Birdsall's gang, probably to replace those they lost in the flood, and Hal himself was shot and left for dead in the hills. He'd have died but for an Ogallalla girl and a couple of half-breeds who had a hunting lodge out near the Peak.
"Fire again!" Hope, or whiskey, or lingering spark of manhood has fired the major's eye and nerved his hand. With something like a sob, one of Birdsall's captured crew rolls over to where the young commander is coolly loading and firing and despite their heavy loss the stout defense has had its effect, and the yelling braves are keeping at wider range. "I'm done for, lieutenant," he moans.
The note Dean picked up at Reno, that so stampeded him, told how a blackmailing scoundrel was on his way to Emory to expose him unless headed off by further huge payments. It was the fellow who called himself Newhall." "The fellow who gave the tip to Birdsall's people?" said old Folsom at this juncture, raising a bandaged head from his daughter's lap. "Who was he, really?"
Admirable service, indeed, had the young Engineer rendered. The testimony of Folsom, Loring, Jimmy Peters and one or two wakeful citizens all proved that there must have been a dozen of Birdsall's gang in town that night. There could be only one explanation, for a price was on the head of every man.
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