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Updated: June 5, 2025
The days were hot while the sun stayed high, and only the riders braved its heat. The morning, however, did not pass without an interesting incident. Brackton approached Slone with an offer that he take charge of the freighting between the Ford and Durango. "What would I do with Wildfire?" was Slone's questioning reply, and Brackton held up his hands.
The sweaty, dust-caked, weary, thin-ribbed mustangs, and the gray-and-red-stained wagon, and the huge jumble of dusty packs, showed something of what the journey had been. "Hi thar, Red Wilson, you air some late gettin' in," greeted old Brackton.
And he, like Brackton, felt sorrow for Creech, and a rider's sense of loss, of pain. These horses these dumb brutes faithful and sometimes devoted, had to suffer an agonizing death because of the selfishness of men. "I reckon we'd all like to hear what come off, Creech, if you don't feel too bad to tell us," said Brackton. "Gimme a drink," replied Creech.
An' I headed fer the Ford made camp twice. An' Joel seen me comin' out a ways." "Creech, was there anythin' left in thet boat?" began Brackton, with intense but pondering curiosity. "Anythin' on the ropes or so thet might give an idee who cut her loose?" Creech made no reply to that. The gloom burned darker in his eyes. He seemed a man with a secret. He trusted no one there.
She greeted them with a bright smile, and when she saw Brackton she burst out: "Oh, Mr. Brackton, the wagon's in, and did my box come? ... To-day's my birthday." "'Deed it did, Lucy; an' many more happy ones to you!" he replied, delighted in her delight. "But it's too heavy for you. I'll send it up or mebbe one of the boys "
"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would not trust. "Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby had heard. Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a word. He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to dealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged.
Slone spread his hands and explained in few words. "So you took over the place, hey? We all figgered thet. But Vorhees was mum. Fact is, he was sure mysterious." Brackton sat down and eyed Slone with interest. "Folks are talkin' a lot about you," he said, bluntly. "Is that so?" "You 'pear to be a pretty mysterious kind of a feller, Slone.
She was indeed Bostil's flesh and blood, and there was that in her dangerous to arouse. "Lin, the folks here are queer," she resumed, more calmly. "For long years Dad has ruled them. They see with his eyes and talk with his voice. Joel Creech swore you cut those cables. Swore he trailed you. Brackton believed him. Van believed him. They told my father.
Creech alone showed no surprise. "But Sears is dead," added Bostil. "He was dead we thought," replied Brackton, with a grim laugh. "But he's alive again. He told me he'd been in Idaho fer two years, in the gold-fields. Said the work was too hard, so he'd come back here. Laughed when he said it, the little devil! I'll bet he was thinkin' of thet wagon-train of mine he stole."
The spell of those looming grand shafts of colored rock was still strong upon him. One morning Slone had a visitor old Brackton. Slone's cordiality died on his lips before it was half uttered. Brackton's former friendliness was not in evidence. Indeed, he looked at Slone with curiosity and disfavor. "Howdy, Slone! I jest wanted to see what you was doin' up hyar," he said.
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