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Updated: June 2, 2025
"I reckon we'll find that out later. Lucky you wasn't. That's a heap more important." Bob was riding behind Dud fifteen minutes later in the wake of the herd. Hawks had gone back to learn what had become of Powder River. Supper was ready when Buck reached camp. He was just in time to hear the cook's "Come an' get it." He reported to Harshaw.
They're sure enough on the warpath." Harshaw took the matter seriously. He gave crisp orders to his riders to cover the creeks and warn all settlers to leave for Bear Cat or Meeker. Dud and Bob were assigned Milk Creek. It was hard for the young fellows, as they rode through a land of warm sunshine, to believe that there actually was another Indian outbreak.
"If Cecil Harshaw was capable of doing what he has done, by his own confession, it would be little more to intercept my answers to his forgeries." That was true, I said. It was quite possible the young man lied. She would, of course, give Mr. Michael Harshaw a chance to tell his story.
He's all right, I said to myself, and Tom was horrid to call him a "chump." He beat himself off a bit, and went in and talked to the ticket-agent. They looked at their watches. "I don't think you'll have time to go uptown," said the ticket-man. Harshaw came out then, and he began to walk the platform, and to stare down the track toward Nampa; so I sat down.
Why was it that of two men one had stamina to go through regardless of the strain while another went to pieces and made a spectacle of himself? Bob noticed that both in his report to Harshaw and later in the story he told at the Slash Lazy D bunkhouse, Dud shielded him completely. He gave not even a hint that Dillon had weakened under pressure.
That was the main consideration of Harshaw when he hired him. He guessed the fellow's name was not Walker any more than it was Bandy. One cognomen had been given him because he was so bow-legged; the other he had no doubt taken for purposes of non-identification. Bandy was short, heavy-set, and muscular. At a glance one would have picked him out as dangerous. The expression on the face was sulky.
He is in fine health, I doubt not, and magnificently preserved. Kitty's mother is not at all averse, as I gather, to this way of settling her child's difficulties. She rather pleadingly assures Kitty that Mr. Harshaw senior has solemnly sworn that this is no unpleasant duty he feels called on to perform; not only his honor, but his affections are profoundly enlisted in this proposal.
Harshaw interrupted. "You're right dizzy, I expect. A fellow can't swallow the Blanco and feel like kickin' a hole in the sky right away. Take yore time, boy." Bob remembered his mount. "Powder River got away from me in the water." He said it apologetically. "I'm not blamin' you for that," the boss said, and laid a kindly hand on Dillon's shoulder. "Was it drowned?"
I shall have to hurry over our little incidents: how the wagon couldn't go on by way of the shore, and had to flounder back over the rocks, and crawl out of the canon to the upper road; how Kitty and I set out vain-gloriously to walk to Broadlands by the river-trail, and Harshaw set out to walk with us; and how Kitty made it difficult for him to walk with both of us by staving on ahead, with the step of a young Atalanta.
Here they were held while the ranch hands busied themselves with preparations for the journey. A wagon and harness were oiled, a chuck-box built, and a supply of groceries packed. Bridles and cinches were gone over carefully, ropes examined, and hobbles prepared. The remuda for the trail outfit was chosen by Harshaw himself. He knew his horses as he knew the trail to Bear Cat.
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