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When the weapon was emptied and the beast lay prone in the dust at his feet, its great jaws agape and dripping with blood-flecked foam, Calumet turned and looked up. He saw Malcolm Clayton come out of the bunkhouse door, and noticed Betty running toward him from the ranchhouse.
Fletcher, yet writhing. "You hear that?" he had cried. "Dolt! You are responsible for this!" He touched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the Rose; called for warm water. Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose. "I go to rescue his cat!" he said; "I'm near worried to death by 'ounds. I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard, damn 'ard.
So my vassals advised me well, brave and wise, the best of men, O sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here, for my nerve and my might they knew full well. Themselves had seen me from slaughter come blood-flecked from foes, where five I bound, and that wild brood worsted. Grendel now, monster cruel, be mine to quell in single battle!
Then I got it good. Say " Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow's end was not far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically nothing to be done for him.
The Marshal, leaning against a brass field-piece, turned to her with a smile in his keen, stern eyes. "You, my young one! What brings you here?" She came up to him with her rapid leopard-like grace, and he started as he saw the change upon her features. She was covered with sand and dust, and with the animal's blood-flecked foam.
It was a red sunset and the west into which we were going looked indeed blood-flecked. Don Juan de Penelosa, harking us on, had an inspiration. "You see the rubies of Cipango!" It is not alone "great" men who bring about things in this world. All of us are in a measure great, as all are on the way to greater greatness.
The man you've known as Green is Buck Stratton himself." Lynch's lids flashed up. "Yuh lie!" he murmured. "Stratton's dead!" "Nothing like it," retorted the sheriff. "The papers got it wrong. He was only badly wounded. This fellow here is Buck Stratton, and he can prove it." A spasm quivered over Lynch's face. He tried to speak, but only a faint gurgle came from his blood-flecked lips.
Scarcely had he heard the sound than through the haze of the smoke the horse, ridden by a girl, came into sight. Instinctively he reined up, and the thought flashed through his brain that it might be Ailleen. The horse and its rider dashed out of the smoke, the horse with its neck stretched out, its eyes starting from its head, its tongue hanging out and blood-flecked foam on its nostrils.
Hanlon threw himself into the melee, but while ostensibly trying to drag the dog away, delayed the few seconds it took for those slashing fangs to rip out Rellos' throat. People came running up, and as the first reached the spot they saw Hanlon struggling to hold back the snarling, blood-flecked dog, while Rellos lay dead in a pool of blood.
When, on the evening of the day of fiercest onslaught the victorious besiegers planted their banner on the captured battlement, the silver-haired veteran, the former spokesman, stood with blood-flecked sword among the bodies of his fallen comrades, the last survivor.
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