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There were the soft peaceful sounds of horses crunching fodder, hoofs rustling in straw. Shadow turned her head and nickered as Drew came up to her box stall. She was answered by a blowing from Shiloh, a bray out of Croaker. "It’s all right, girl—pretty lady—" Drew fondled her mane, stroked the satin-smooth arch of neck. Callie dropped from his barrel perch.
"Who is she?" some one asked. "Show them who you are, Callie." "Callie? Callie ? Surely not, Mother Roberts. She was," etc., etc. But she was showing them; choking down her sobs of joy, or rather, trying to, as she rolled up her sleeves to convince them. Even so, they found it very difficult to believe, very, very difficult.
After telling them that he did not like to risk their lives by trying to return to Callie Harbour, he asked if they were willing to sail with him to the southwestern coast of New Guinea, where, he had heard, there was a great deal of pearl-shell to be bought from the natives.
She opened a disreputable door, and we climbed a dirty and fearfully rickety stairway; next we groped our way along a dark passage. "Mind, there's a broken board! Look out you don't break your ankle," said Callie. She spoke none too soon. I narrowly escaped an accident.
See how far it is to the shore." The other girls looked up, startled, and to their dismay discovered that their boat had slipped its moorings and was fast drifting down the river, nearer and nearer to the current of midstream. They looked at each other with scared faces, but they did not want to alarm the little girls, and so Callie said, with a forced laugh: "Oh, that's all right.
"But I’m not sellin’." Drew folded the piece of paper he had been waving to dry the ink and put it back in the belt pocket. "What’s that?" He could almost believe he heard an army bugle, but the call it sounded was unlike any cavalry signal he had known. Callie was already on his way to the door. "Wagon train’s comin’!" he cried as he ran out. Drew lingered by Shadow’s box.
The result was that I felt led to go further south for a while, but not before some better conditions existed for those two poor girls and others who might follow. One day while I was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Helms, Sr., in Santa Clara, good friends of the cause, the latter said: "Sister Roberts, have you ever met Callie ?" "No, Sister Helms," I answered, "but I have heard of her.
"General Forrest!" Callie glowed. "Lordy, Mister Kirby, that’s sure somethin’, it sure is! Only don’t be sayin’ that round Cap’n Bayliss neither. He has him a big hate for General Forrest—seems like Bayliss was a colonel once till th’ General outsmarted him back east. An’ there was a big smoke-up ’bout it. They cut th’ cap’n’s spurs for him, an’ he ended th’ war out here.
She isn't a nail-one!" shouted her brother. Nail-ones belonged to an inferior caste. This class included those who had been about the streets and yards, back of barns and in old corner-lots, picking up nails or cast-away bits of iron. Their currency was the more common. A hard-cash customer was about as common as bobolinks in December. "Callie, come here and buy some fruit!"
"Texas...." Something in the way Fenner repeated that made it sound not like a confirmation but a question. Or was Drew overly suspicious? After all, as Callie had agreed last night, the late Republic of Texas was a very large strip of country, housing a multitude of native sons, from the planting families of the Brazos to the ranchers in crude cabins of the Brasado.
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