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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Huh!" grunted the old man. "Marryin' a fool gal or any other woman ain't nothin' to do. If I was your age I'd have her Miz Himes before sundown." "All right," said Buckheath, "if it's so damn' easy done this here marryin' do some of it yourself. Thar's Laurelly Consadine; she's a widow; and more kin to Pros than Johnnie is.
"That's exactly what I came down here to speak with you about, Gray," he said. "They've fetched Shade Buckheath in now, what do you make out of that?" Stoddard shoved the letter from the Eastern mining man back in its pigeon-hole. "Well," he said slowly, "I didn't expect that. I thought of course Shade was safely out of the country. I Passmore, I'm sorry they've got him."
And thar's Laurelly light-minded fool ain't got the sense she was born with up thar without Pros nor Johnnie I could persuade her to take off her head and play pitch-ball with it Lord, yes!" "Well, you've bragged about enough," put in Buckheath grimly. "You git down in the collar and pull." The old man gave him no heed. He was still grinning fatuously.
Himes and Buckheath were exchanging glances across the old man's bent, gray head. Common humanity would have suggested that they offer him rest or refreshment, but these two were intent only on what the bandanna held. What is it in the thought of wealth from the ground that so intoxicates, so ravishes away from all reasonable judgment, the generality of mankind?
It seems that Buckheath took advantage of the feeling there was in the mountains against the mill men on account of the hospital and some other matters. He went up there and interviewed anybody that he thought might join him in a vendetta.
"Well, I'll read it again, if you don't believe me," Buckheath said impatiently. "All that Alabama mill wants is to have me go over there and put this trick on their jennies, and if it works they'll give us a royalty of well, I'll make the bargain." "Or I will," countered Pap swiftly. "You?" inquired Shade contemptuously.
She was aware that social overtures from such a person were not to be received by her, and she put them aside quite as though she had been, according to her own opinion, above rather than beneath them. The lover-like pretensions of Shade Buckheath, a man dangerous, remorseless, as careless of the rights of others as any tiger in the jungle, she regarded with negligent composure.
With tears on his tanned cheeks the Scotchman complied; and Hardwick's eyes, too, were wet as he saw it. "We'll have those things off of him in no time," he shouted. "Here, let's get him in to the couch in my office. Send some of the mechanics here. Where's Shade Buckheath?" A dozen pairs of hands were stretched up to assist MacPherson and Pros Passmore.
If he saw her approaching, he turned his back; and when forced to recognize her, barely growled some unintelligible greeting. Then one evening she came suddenly into the machine room. She walked slowly down the long aisle between pieces of whirring machinery, carrying all eyes with her. It was an offence to Buckheath to note how the other young fellows turned from their tasks to look after her.
Johnnie continued to watch with fascinated eyes; Shade was on his feet now, reaching into the bowels of the machine to do mysterious things. "It's a broken connection," he announced briefly. "Is the wire too short to twist together?" inquired the man in the car. "Will you have to put in a new piece?" "Uh-huh," assented Buckheath. "There's a wire in that box there," directed the other.
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