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Updated: June 28, 2025
But Buck would not have it that way. "What about him?" he demanded out load, his voice grating like steel when it grinds. "Is he how is he doing?" "What's eatin' you? Ain't he dying fast enough to suit you?" Flandrau shrank from the cruel words, as a schoolboy does from his teacher when he jumps at him with a cane.
The district attorney had no choice but to go on with the case of the State versus Flandrau on a charge of rustling horses from the Bar Double M. But public sentiment was almost a unit in favor of the defendant. The evidence of the prosecution was not so strong as it had been.
"Another patient here, they tell me," he grunted in the brusque way that failed to conceal the kindest of hearts. Buck nodded toward Flandrau. "Let's have a look at your arm, young fellow," the doctor ordered, mopping his bald head with a big bandanna handkerchief. "What about the boss?" asked Jake presently. "Mighty sick man, looks like. Tell you more to-morrow morning."
You'll guess your man wrong, or he'll be one glass drunker than you figure on, and then he'll plug you through and through." "The man that takes chances lives longest, Mac," his friend replied, dismissing the subject carelessly. "I'm going to tuck away about three hours of sleep. So long." And with a nod he was gone to his room. "All the same Luck's too derned rash," Flandrau commented.
Flandrau had called his bluff, though he had not meant it as one. A dozen men were in sight and were watching. They had heard the young man tell Stone he was not armed. Public opinion would hold him to account if he shot Curly down in cold blood. He hung there undecided, breathing fast, his jaw clamped tightly. The lad hammered home his defiance.
From the office of the sheriff, Mackenzie wandered to the club in search of Luck. He was thoroughly dispirited, both dreaded to meet Luck, and yet was anxious to do so. For he wanted to warn him, wanted to see him fall into one of his chill rages when he told him there were suspicions against him. Cullison had left the club, but Alec Flandrau was still there.
Sometimes it would be Maloney and Davis, sometimes his uncle Alec Flandrau, occasionally a couple of the Map of Texas vaqueros. It chanced that "Old Man" Flandrau, drifting into Chalkeye's Place, found in the assembled group the man he sought.
He looked at Mac, the forty-five shaking in the boy's hand, and he looked at Flandrau. "They're after you," he said, breathing fast as if he had been running. "Who?" fired Curly back at him. "The Bar Double M boys. They just reached town." "Put up that gun, Mac, and move into your clothes immediate," ordered Curly. Then to Davis: "Go on. Unload the rest. What do they know?"
One was Laura London, the other he had never seen. She was a fair young woman with thick ropes of yellow hair coiled round her head. Deep-breasted and robust-loined, she had the rich coloring of the Scandinavian race and much of the slow grace peculiar to its women. The hostess pronounced their names. "Miss Anderson, this is Mr. Flandrau. Mr. Flandrau Miss Anderson."
He was now dealing, his eyes on the cards, so that he missed the embarrassment in the faces of those about him. "On Thursday, the first day the law allows," Cullison answered quietly. Flandrau chuckled. "I reckon Cass Fendrick will be some sore." "I expect." Cullison's gaze met coolly the black, wrathful eyes of the man who had just come in.
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