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Updated: June 5, 2025
"To think," she exclaimed bitterly, "to think that Fordie, descended from generations of Williams who have pioneered and fought for and built up this country since ever the first Williams landed in Boston in 1666, was done to death by this murderer, this truckster, this political trickster, this outcast from the European gutters, this huckster of lazaretto morals and bawd houses, who is overturning our Nation with his oiled villainies and peddler ways!
Her woman instinct caught at the first straw to hand. "Photogravures, Fordie, three more to-day. They are Watts " "He has to round the next turn! Never mind! He didn't hear," interjected Wayland irritably. "All the same," she said, "I'm going to send one of those pictures up to you for the cabin. There is Hope sitting on top of the World, eyes bandaged, harp strings broken " "Don't send that one!
Then the grand-daughter of the man of the iron hand had gathered the little white haired lady in her arms as if to ward the blow. "The outlaws drove Fordie over the Rim Rocks with the herd," she said. "Is he dead? Is he dead?" The little woman had drawn her body up its full height. Eleanor tried to answer. The words would not come from her lips. She nodded.
Now I understand what the loafers at the station meant, and the driver's unfriendliness, and those unclean women; and to think they framed it all out of that innocent coat. You know, father, Mr. Wayland had carried Fordie down from the Rim Rocks. We carried the body in together." "Where is Wayland?" asked MacDonald; and she poured out the full story of all that had happened.
If these crimes had been committed under a monarchy, the people would have tanned the hide of the king into boot leather! Last year it was the little school teacher. This year it's Fordie. Tomorrow, it may be any man, woman or child in the Valley.
In the shadow realms of wonderful dream consciousness, his face, the face in "the Happy Warrior"; but not her face: instead was the evil fellow seen that night in the storm on the Rim Rocks clubbing his gun at Fordie's pinto pony through the mists; only he wasn't clubbing it at Fordie; he was aiming at Wayland; and there was the white horse. She wakened herself with her cry.
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