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Updated: June 8, 2025
"But I reckon you lost." Corliss nodded. Sheriff Banks tossed Corliss's note on his desk, reached in his pocket and drew forth a jack-knife with which he began to trim his finger-nails. He paid no apparent attention to the arrival of one of his deputies, but proceeded with his manipulation of the knife. The deputy sidled to a chair and sat watching the sheriff.
This Richard Lindley was a thin, friendly looking young man with a pleasing, old-fashioned face which suggested that if he were minded to be portrayed it should be by the daguerreotype, and that a high, black stock would have been more suitable to him than his businesslike, modern neck-gear. Corliss's white coat.
And it so happened, probably because saw-mills and house-space were scarce, that the saloons accommodated the gambling tables and the polished dance-house floors. And here, because he needs must bend to custom, Corliss's adaptation went on rapidly. And as Carthey, who appreciated him, soliloquized, "The best of it is he likes it damn well, by damn!"
He came to see me; wanted me to put real money into an oil scheme. Too thin!" "Why is it `too thin'?" she asked carelessly. "Too far away, for one thing somewhere in Italy. Anybody who put up his cash would have to do it on Corliss's bare word that he's struck oil." "Well?" She turned her face to him, and a faint perturbation was manifest in her tone. "Isn't Mr.
Corliss's voice was sharp and relentless. "I'll do naething o' the kind." He turned a rebellious face on his tormentor, and ground his teeth in anger and disappointment. The canoe was drifting down with the current, and Frona merely held it in place. Corliss crawled forward on his knees.
A great picture, but somehow Corliss's mind turned to his mother and her perennial tea, the soft carpets, the prim New England maid-servants, the canaries singing in the wide windows, and he wondered if she could understand.
A low, gasping cry broke from Mrs. Corliss's lips, and her face grew ashen white. She tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat. "He talks to me a great deal about her," continued Birdie, "and he weeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her.
Captain Corliss of C company welcomed us to the post and to his company, and said he hoped I should like MacDowell better than I did Ehrenberg. Now Ehrenberg seemed years agone, and I could laugh at the mention of it. Supper was awaiting us at Captain Corliss's, and Mrs. Kendall, wife of Lieutenant Kendall, Sixth Cavalry, had, in Jack's absence, put the finishing touches to our quarters.
Sundown's sense of the dramatic, his love for posing, with his linguistic ability to adopt the vernacular of the moment so impressed the temperamental Murphy that he disregarded a portion of his friend Corliss's note, and the morning following his lean guest's arrival at the ranch the jovial Irishman himself saddled and bridled the swiftest and most vicious horse in the corral; a glass-eyed pinto, bronc from the end of his switching tail to his pink-mottled muzzle.
Frona woke, slowly, as though from a long dream. She was lying where she had fallen, across Corliss's legs, while he, on his back, faced the hot sun without concern. She crawled up to him. He was breathing regularly, with closed eyes, which opened to meet hers. He smiled, and she sank down again. Then he rolled over on his side, and they looked at each other. "Vance." "Yes."
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