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Updated: June 28, 2025
However, I can hazard a good guess as to what he desires to see me about. I'm glad you didn't tell him where I might be found, Hennage. It was thoughtful of you. I do not care to meet T. Morgan Carey yet." "Well," said Mr. Hennage, "he's a smart man an' smells o' ready money.
"We have copies of the telephone directories of the principal cities in the state" came the quick reply. "It makes it easier if we ask for the number direct." "Five bucks for a look in the book" announced Mr. Hennage. He got the book, with the information that he might have his look for nothing, but being a generous soul he declined. He ascertained that R. P. McKeon was an attorney-at-law.
Arrived outside the Silver Dollar, Harley P. immediately found himself greatly in demand. Borax O'Rourke, having told all he knew, which was little enough, and aching to supply further details, was the first man to accost him. "Well, Hennage," he began, "what's the latest? Any more kissin' goin' on?" Mr. Hennage's baleful eyes scouted the mule-skinner's person for evidence of hardware.
For fully thirty seconds those terrible eyes flamed, unblinking, on Doc Taylor; then Mr. Hennage spoke. "Now, what is his name goin' to be, Doc?" "Roland McGuire" said Doc Taylor, and swallowed his Adam's apple twice. "Bright boy. Go to the head o' the class an' don't forget to remember to stick there." Mr.
Donna, from an adjoining room, heard him and came into the kitchen. "Well, Borax" she demanded, "what do you want? A hat?" She saw that he had been drinking, and a sudden fear took possession of her. With the exception of her Indian retainer, Bob McGraw, Harley P. Hennage and Doc Taylor, no male foot had profaned the Hat Ranch in twenty years, and the presence of O'Rourke was a distinct menace.
He sat down on his bed and bowed his bald head in his trembling hands, for once more Harley P. Hennage was face to face with a great issue. He, too, was experiencing some of the agony of a grief that could find no outlet in tears a three-year-old grief that could have no ending until the end should come for Harley P. Presently he roused and looked at his watch.
Who ever heard of a sick man getting anything but that?" Mr. Hennage showed his three gold teeth. "Ain't Mrs. Pennycook been down with a plate o' calf's-foot jelly or somethin' o' that nature?" he asked. It was Donna's turn to laugh. "I hardly think she'll come. She hasn't given me a friendly look in three years."
The voices came from the inner office, behind the tier of lock boxes. Realizing that he was in a public place, Mr. Hennage did not feel it incumbent upon him to announce his presence by coughing or shuffling his feet. He remained discreetly silent, therefore, and Mrs. Pennycook's voice resumed: "She had him taken right down to the Hat Ranch, of all places.
I'll have to scout around and borrow the money somewhere, and to be quite candid, Donna, I have designs on our gambler friend, Hennage." She smiled. "Dear, good old Harley P.! He'd grubstake you if it broke the bank." "Well, I'm going to figure along that line at any rate.
Hennage sealed carefully in an envelope, together with a compact little roll of bills, just as the train whistled for San Pasqual. He seized his suit-case and hurried down stairs, and on the way down he met Sam Singer coming up. "Give this to Miss Donna" said Mr. Hennage, and thrust the envelope into the Indian's hand. "Ain't got no time to talk to you, Sam.
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