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Updated: May 2, 2025
"And if you're not lucky?" Harshaw demanded. "Why, o' course we might have trouble. Got to take our chances on that." "They might wipe the whole bunch of you out. No, sir. I need my men right here. This whole thing's comin' to a show-down right soon. Houck will have to wait." "I got to go back, Mr. Harshaw," Bob insisted. "I done promised him I would." "Looky here, boy.
Harshaw is the "swamper," because he makes himself useful doing things my lord doesn't like to do. And Kitty is not Miss Co-myn, as we called it, but Miss "Cummin," as they call it, "the Comin' woman," Tom calls her. Mr. Billings, the teamster, completes our party. Sept. Never mind the date. This is to-morrow morning, and we are at Walter's Ferry. It seems a week since we left Bisuka.
"Meet Mr. Houck, boys, any of you that ain't already met him," said Harshaw by way of introduction. "He's going to trail along with us for a while." The situation was awkward. Several of those present had met Houck only as the victim of their rude justice the night that June Tolliver had swum the river to escape him. Fortunately the cook at that moment bawled out that supper was ready.
"Then we'd better take the ridge," Harshaw suggested to Sheahan. "Right quick, too." The major agreed. They put the troop in motion. Another scout rode in. The Utes were hurrying as fast as they could to the rock-rim. Major Sheahan quickened the pace to a gallop. The Indians lying in the bushes fired at them as they went. Tom Reeves went down, his horse shot under him.
"Are you the Mr. Harshaw?" I asked, though I hadn't an idea, of course, that he could be anybody else. "Not exactly," he said. "I'm his cousin, Cecil Harshaw." "Is Mr. Harshaw ill?" He looked foolish, and dropped his eyes. "No," said he. "He was well last night when I left him at the ranch." Last night! He had come a hundred miles between dark of one day and noon of the next!
Harshaw had got possession of the canteen, and so was able to serve the maiden, both when she drank and when she held out her rosy fingers to be sprinkled, he tilting a little water on them slowly with such provoking slowness that she chid him; then he let it come in gulps, and she chid him more, for spattering her shoes.
"I cannot believe," said the distracted girl, "that Michael would lend himself, even passively, to such an abominable trick. Could any one believe it of his worst enemy!" Impossible, I agreed. She must believe nothing till she had heard from her lover. "But if Michael did not know it," she mused, with a piteous blush, "then Cecil Harshaw must have sent me that money himself the insolence!
Already they planned a garden, and in the evenings were as likely to talk of turnips, beets, peas, beans, and potatoes as of the new Hereford bulls Larson and Harshaw were importing from Denver. For the handwriting was on the wall. Cattlemen must breed up or go out of business. The old dogy would not do any longer. Already Utah stock was displacing the poor southern longhorns.
Michael Harshaw had not arrived, or sent some satisfactory message, he could cast himself into the breach. "And I'm sorry for you," I said; "for I don't think you will have an easy time of it." "She can't do worse than hate me, Mrs. Daly; and that's better than sending me friendly little messages in her letters to Micky."
Our tents are pitched, our blankets spread in the sun, our wagon is soaking its tired feet in the river. Tom and Harshaw are up-stream somewhere, fishing for supper. Billings is bargaining with Old Man Decker for the "keep" of his team. Kitty and I are enjoying ourselves. There is a rip in one of the back seams of my jacket, Kitty tells me, but even that cannot move me.
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