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"Never mind, Comrades," interrupted Shag. "We are glad of your company, little Cow-Bird are we not, A'tim?" "Yes," answered the Dog-Wolf, licking his chops, and looking treacherously from the corner of his slit eyes at the Bird. "Where are you going, Great Bull?" asked the Cow-Bird, spreading his deep-brown wings mockingly, as though he would fly down on the Dog-Wolf's head. "To the Northland."
It was one of the black stable hands who recalled Pitkin to a sense of his responsibilities. The roustabout approached, leading a bay colt. "Boss, is Gabe done quit us?" "Huh?" grunted Pitkin, emerging from a deep-brown study. "Yes, he's gone, confound him!" "Well, he lef thisyer Gen'al Duval hoss behin' him. The Gen'al's cooled out now; whut you want me to do with him?"
His sister-daughter, who had been unhappy with her brother's wife, gladly left them to keep house with the Count. She was then in her seventeenth year, splendidly developed in bosom and bottom, lovely and lustful deep-brown eyes, the very image of her father, although she only knew him as her brother.
Against the blue, standing on the gray and sunlit rock, with the flute at his lips, and his tiny, deep-brown fingers moving swiftly, he looked at one with the mountain and yet almost unearthly, almost as if the blue had given birth to him for a moment, and in a moment would draw him back again into the womb of its wonder. His goats were all around him, treading delicately among the rocks.
He was a big man, worthy to be accounted such even among the strapping mountaineers of that district, and as he leant on the long barrel of his quaintly ornamental rifle his sheepskin cloak fell back from a long sinewy arm of deep-brown hue. As he listened to the far-off rumble of independent firing he muttered to himself indications of anxiety.
His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow that he used to be dashing by nature, we may remark, not by affectation.
Great news; great news!" "What is it?" asked Miss Ross, her deep-brown eyes brightening with curiosity. "Another heiress coming!" announced Chilvers, with the bow of a jeweller displaying some rare gem " another heiress on her way to Woodvale! This is going to be a hard season for such perennial bachelors as Smith, Boyd, Carter, and others I could name.
She wore a false front, which she called a topknot, the small, crimped, deep-brown mohair curls of which were bound about her forehead with a bit of black velvet ribbon, while gray hairs straggled from underneath to make the patent sham more transparent still; and over her topknot she wore a rusty black cap that enclosed the keen monkeyish face like a ruff.
It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch. There came riding on red roan steeds or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel two wooers.
There was an appealing look now in her soft deep-brown eyes, and her thin, delicate lips trembled as she hurried on with her strange story. "I never saw my father in such a state before," she murmured. "For days all he had talked about was the 'big fish, the peje grande, whatever that might mean and the curse of Mansiche." The recollection of the past few days seemed to be too much for her.
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