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Brayley's strength of lungs came back to him with a new anger. "You howlin' idiot, what are you tryin' to do?" "I was a-readin'," responded Lonesome Pete, still grinning vapidly, still not quite certain whether the things which he saw about him were real things or literary hallucinations. "A-readin'!" snapped Brayley, sitting up. "That what I'm payin' you for, you blame gallinipper!"
And Faulkner adds an extract from Brayley's "London" to the above in the form of a note: "Hurlingham Field is now the property of the Earl of Ranelagh, and the site of his house. It was here that great numbers of people were buried during the plague."
Seein' as that's thirty mile or worse, the chances is he'll ride mos' all night an' won't be back for a day or two." Conniston sank back upon his straw pillow. "What I have to say to him will keep," he said, quietly. The red-headed man looked at him curiously. "Brayley's the boss on this outfit, pardner. What he says goes as she lays. It's sure bad business buckin' your foreman.
Brayley's weight was the greater, his rush fiercer, and Conniston was flung back in spite of his dogged determination not to give up an inch. He had felt Brayley's iron fist before, but not with the rage behind it which now drove it into Conniston's face. The blow laid open his cheek and hurled him backward, to land upon his feet, his body rocking dizzily, his back jammed against the corral.
By good fortune the sky was overcast with heavy clouds and not even the glimmer of a star relieved the gloom. They put McNutt on the back seat with Louise, cautioned him to be quiet, and then drove away. Dan Brayley's place was two miles distant, but in answer to Peggy's earnest inquiry if she knew the way Beth declared she could find it blind-folded.
Then, as Brayley again gathered his strength in a mighty effort to rid himself of the man who held him down, Conniston loosened his hold, springing back and up to his feet. And in each hand Conniston held one of Brayley's guns. A quick gesture, and as Brayley rose to his feet he saw his two revolvers flying skyward, over the high fence and into the big corral. "You got 'em!"
As he stepped in at the door they were dragging their chairs noisily up to the table. Brayley, one eye swollen almost shut, his lips thick like a negro's with the blows which had hammered them, had just taken his seat. The men's eyes were quick to catch the bruised countenance of the man at the door, and ran swiftly from it to Brayley's face and back again.
He sent you because you are the only man he has working under him whom he could spare. Because he needs all the good men!" Conniston felt his face go red. He tried to laugh at what she said, to show her that it mattered little to him what a man of Brayley's type said or thought. And he was angry with himself because he knew that it did matter.
But before a man could count five both the pain and astonishment had gone from Brayley's eyes, giving place to the red anger which surged back. And with the return of clamoring rage Brayley's dizziness passed and he sprang to his feet. Again was Conniston ready, again telling himself that he had a promise to keep, and that now or never was the time to make good his word.
McNutt?" "Me? I don't hev to. I grow 'em." "But the ones you grow are worth fifty cents each, are they not?" "Sure; mine is." "Then every time you eat one of your own melons you eat fifty cents. If you were eating one of Mr. Brayley's melons you would only eat fifteen cents." "And it would be Brayley's fifteen cents, too," added Beth, quickly.
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