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Updated: June 17, 2025
I'll go with ye that far, an' ye c'n deed me th' prop'ty before a notary, so's I won't be obliged to foreclose. Then I'll come back an' pay yer bill at Bixler's, an' ye'll have one hundred dollars to take ye down to Frisco. Will ye be at th' store at half past nine?" A wait, then a short nod.
He heard the voice of it in the soft murmuring of the South Fork of the Eel, which went twinkling down Bear Valley through firs and redwoods straight as telegraph poles; in the caress of the soft south wind soughing in the tree-tops. Chipmunks and gray squirrels darted across his path. A quarter of a mile from Wharton Bixler's store he turned off on a narrow road which led into the deeper forest.
Uncle Sebastian had risen to emphasize this ultimatum. Now, standing and looking down, he finished: "Whether ye'll bless me or curse me remains to be seen." Hiram made no reply he did not even look up. "So be down to Wharton Bixler's by stage time to-morrow, Hiram, an' be ready to take th' stage to Brown's Corner.
"Ain't seen ye down to th' store at stage time in I dunno when, Hiram," he remarked, surveying the handsome young Hercules with admiration. Hiram skimmed a flat piece of slate across a riffle. "I never get any mail, Uncle Sebastian," he drawled. "They's a heap o' us don't go to Bixler's fer th' mail, Hiram."
Blindly he stumbled down Wild-cat Hill and took up the long road to Bixler's store. They were driving him, like Hagar, from all that he held dear, and there was hatred in his heart. The train that carried Hiram Hooker to San Francisco was late. Thirty miles from the bay it began making up for lost time. Through the falling dusk it roared toward the metropolis. Slowly the landscape faded.
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