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Updated: May 1, 2025
Immediately after the cake and tea were finished, Jeb and Sary started away to hunt the ring; but many were the admonitions sent after them as they left the door, to be on hand at the railway terminal to see Polly and her friends off for New York. Mrs. Brewster and her husband cleared away the remains of the luncheon while Mrs.
"Now we'll turn off at the Forks and ride fast to meet Simms and his party," advised Mr. Brewster, when they reached the place where the trails forked. "Mike says there's the old Indian Trail up the mountain, that cuts off half the distance to the Slide," called Jeb, from the front. "Him bad trail no like Top Notch," warned the Indian. "Whereabouts will we hit it, Mike?" asked Mr. Brewster.
Well, Jeb mos' fell off his cheer, when, ef he hadn't been sech a skeery idgit, he'd 'a' knowed that Polly Ann was plain open an' shet a-biddin' fer him. But he sot thar like a knot on a log fer haffen hour, an' then he rickollected, I reckon, that Abe had tol' him Polly Ann was peppery an' he mustn't mind, fer Jeb begun a-movin' ag'in till he was slam-bang agin Polly Ann's cheer.
"Then it's a lucky thing for you, Jeb, that my friends missed the train to-day." "Jes' so!" chuckled Jeb, as he gathered up the reins and snacked the whip over his horses' heads. Conversation lagged after the start, for the bumping and rumbling of the heavy wagon as it went over rocks and ruts in the rough trail, forced all the breath from the passenger's lungs.
He found time to write several books war reminiscences and memoirs, and a volume in vindication of his former commander, Jeb Stuart, on the Confederate cavalry in the Gettysburg campaign. He died in Washington, at the age of eighty-three, in 1916.
"Last summer most of the scouts was busy with war gardens and war work and 'twas a kind of off season as you might say. I cal'late they'll come in herds like buffaloes this summer." "Every cabin is booked until Columbus Day," Tom said; "and all the tent space is assigned." "Yer reckon to finish by August first?" Uncle Jeb asked.
Jeb felt of the man's heart and found a very slight pulsation there. He was alive! But how to get his feet free from the leather on the horse, and how to carry the big heavy fellow up that treacherous side?
Resounding cheers arose and echoed from the hills when old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, retired ranchman and tracker, and scout manager of the big camp, took his seat among the high dignitaries. He made some concession to the occasion by wearing a necktie which was half way around his neck, and by laying aside his corn-cob pipe.
In a moment he returned with one of the greatest treasures of the "Lady Jane" Great-uncle Joe's ship-glass that was always kept safe from profaning touch; its clear lenses, that had looked out on sea and sky through many a long voyage, polished to a shine. Captain Jeb adjusted them to his own failing eyes, and gazed seaward for a few moments in silence.
It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rushmore, scout and woodsman, who had told Tom about breed marks, and how they differed from mere points of resemblance. And it made him think about Jeb Rushmore. Swiftly and silently along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come out of the East, from the far-off Toul sector, for service as required.
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