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Updated: June 4, 2025
And Hapgood after the same examination and a sight of the rough beds covered with patchwork comforters, groaned aloud. "Maybe it's funny," he muttered. "But if it is, I don't see it." "What are you going to do about it?" chuckled Conniston. "You can't fling out and go to the rival hotel, because there isn't any! You can't sleep outdoors very well. And you can't catch a train until a train comes.
"We got something else to do besides tinker with ol' fences," he said, roughly. "Pete, you got to git along alone to-day. I'll give you a man to-morrow if I can spare one. Conniston, you git your hoss an' go with Rawhide an' Toothy." Not stopping for an answer, Brayley lurched away toward the range-house.
At half-past three, Conniston, awakened with a start by the jangle and clamor of Tommy Garton's little alarm-clock, got up and dressed. At the lunch-counter the man who had been fidgety yesterday and was merely sleepy this morning set coffee and flapjacks and bacon before him.
The sun was low down in the western sky, dropping swiftly to the clear-cut line of the horizon, the air growing misty with the coming night, the sunset sky glowing gold and flaming crimson, when Conniston awoke. He sat up rubbing his eyes, at first at a loss to account for his surroundings. Then he saw Hapgood sprawled at his side and remembered.
"Conniston, do you know what you are saying?" "Positively, old chap. I count every word, because it hurts when I talk. So you won't argue with me, please. It's the biggest sporting thing that's ever come my way. I'll be dead. You can bury me under this floor, where the foxes can't get at me.
Argyl and Conniston were standing by a sinking camp-fire talking quietly. Lonesome Pete, returned from his errand, had gone into the grove at the edge of which their fire burned for fresh fuel. There came to them through the silence the clatter of hoofs; the vague, shadowy form of horse and rider rose against the sky-line, and Jocelyn Truxton threw herself to the ground.
He says, 'That's a Half Moon, or, 'It's a Bar Circle, or 'It's a U Seven. 'Cause why? 'Cause she's got a bran' as a man can make out. But these here words" he shook his head as he opened his book and peered into it "they ain't got no bran'. Ain't it hell, stranger?" "What's the word, Pete," smiled Conniston. "She ain't so big an' long as bothers me," Lonesome Pete answered.
"I got word to-day from the men we have been expecting from Denver. They have gone to work by now." "Under Bat Truxton?" demanded Conniston, quickly. The older man cut off the end of his cigar, rolled the black perfecto between his lips, and lighted it before he replied. "They have gone to work," he repeated, as though discussing a matter of no moment, "for Oliver Swinnerton.
Conniston sat frowning moodily, his fingers tapping the roll of blue-prints in his hands. "Isn't there any way," he asked suddenly, swinging upon Garton, "of making a go of this without building that dam?" "No, Greek, there isn't. You see, there isn't any too much water up in the mountains at best. We have to get every drop that the law allows us."
"I'm going around to Truxton's a little while this evening," he said, trying to speak as a man of the world should, but flushing up under Garton's twinkling eyes. "If you find time dragging on your hands you might come along, Mr. Conniston. Miss Jocelyn" he hesitated a moment "Miss Jocelyn said I might bring you around."
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