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Updated: June 6, 2025
A little flicker of a smile shot across Crawford's face. "We're all looking for men good men all the time. I can use a half-dozen more cow-punchers right now. Do you want to try it?" Conniston's one glance of the girl's eager face decided him. "I've always had a curiosity to know what they did when they punched the poor brutes," he grinned back.
Conniston's strength was less than the other's, and he knew it, knew that his endurance would be nothing against the muscles seasoned by daily physical work until they were like steel. He knew that in two minutes of battling struggle he would be like a kitten in the big, powerful hands.
As Brayley charged for a second blow, Conniston stepped aside swiftly and swung with his right arm, collecting every ounce of his strength and putting it into the blow. Brayley tried to lift his arm to protect himself, but the fraction of a second too late. Conniston's fist landed squarely upon the corner of the foreman's jaw, just below the ear.
There were times when the contemplation of these things appalled him, and his mind turned to other channels of escape. And then always he heard Conniston's cool, fighting voice, and the red blood fired up in his veins, and he faced home. He was Derwent Conniston.
And there was a grim light, but at the same time a light of deep satisfaction in Conniston's eyes as he saw that his whirling noose had gone unerringly, settling as Toothy's rope would have done. He blindfolded the big, belligerent horse to mount him. When his feet were securely thrust into his stirrups he leaned forward and with a swift jerk snapped the handkerchief from the horse's eyes.
His SISTER! And the agony of truth gripped him that it was not as a brother that he saw the glory in her hair, the glory in her eyes and face, and the glory in her slim little, beautiful body but as the lover. A merciless preordination had stacked the cards against him again. He was Conniston, and she was Conniston's sister.
"Through the short cut straight back into the mountains it's twenty." Lonesome Pete was turning to drive toward a gap in the encircling trees when the girl called to him to take Conniston's horse. And then the three went to the house. The flight of steps led them to a wide veranda, eloquent of comfort with its deep wicker rockers and hammocks piled temptingly with cushions.
Softly he repeated it, smiling into Keith's eyes. "A ripping joke on McDowell!" Dawn the dusk of another night and Keith raised his haggard face from Conniston's bedside with a woman's sob on his lips. The Englishman had died as he knew that he would die, game to the last threadbare breath that came out of his body.
A pitch-filled spruce knot exploded with the startling vividness of a star bomb, and with it came a dull sort of mental shock to Keith. He was sure that for an instant he had seen Conniston's face and that the Englishman's eyes were looking at him as the eyes had looked at him out of the face in the watch.
In his mind there was no doubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that he had been expecting him, even watching for him. Convinced of this, he gave him one of Conniston's cards and said, "Take this to Shan Tung. He is expecting me." Li King looked at the card, studied it for a moment with apparent stupidity, and shook his head. "Shan Tung no home. Gone away." That was all.
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