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Updated: June 25, 2025
Duane wondered, considering that Longstreth had ruined Laramie, how Mrs. Laramie was going to regard the daughter of an enemy. "So you're Granger Longstreth's girl?" queried the woman, with her bright, black eyes fixed on her visitor. "Yes," replied Miss Longstreth, simply. "This is my cousin, Ruth Herbert. We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in any way you'll let us."
I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you friends would come? So will the brighter side." "Yes, I've more faith than I had," replied Mrs. Laramie. "Granger Longstreth's daughter has come to me.
His pale eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper. "Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?" "Who?" demanded Longstreth. Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid. "That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed Bland, Alloway ?" "An' Hardin."
The evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Longstreth's big sitting-room, at the far end of the house. When a buckboard drove up and Longstreth and Lawson alighted, Duane was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that he could get but a fleeting glimpse of Longstreth as he went in.
He cursed as a man cursed at defeat. Duane waited, cool and sure now. Longstreth tried to lift the dead man, to edge him closer toward the table where his own gun lay. But, considering the peril of exposing himself, he found the task beyond him. He bent peering at Duane under Lawson's arm, which flopped out from his side. Longstreth's eyes were the eyes of a man who meant to kill.
And the princess, a slim figure in an immaculate linen frock with red ribbons which Aunt Mary had copied from Longstreth's London catalogue, would reply with dignity: "Bridget, I wish you would try to remember that my name is Honora." Another spasm of laughter from Bridget.
And on this night, lonely like the ones he used to spend in the Nueces gorge, and memorable of them because of a likeness to that old hiding-place, he felt the pressing return of old haunting things the past so long ago, wild flights, dead faces and the places of these were taken by one quiveringly alive, white, tragic, with its dark, intent, speaking eyes Ray Longstreth's.
He met Laramie, Morton, Zimmer, and others of like character; a secret club had been formed; and all the members were ready for action. Duane spent hours at night watching the house where Floyd Lawson stayed when he was not up at Longstreth's.
And the princess, a slim figure in an immaculate linen frock with red ribbons which Aunt Mary had copied from Longstreth's London catalogue, would reply with dignity: "Bridget, I wish you would try to remember that my name is Honora." Another spasm of laughter from Bridget.
But she need not have been either resolute or strong, for the clasp of her hand was enough to make Duane weak. "Up yet, Ray?" came Longstreth's clear voice, too strained, too eager to be natural. "No. I'm in bed reading. Good night," instantly replied Miss Longstreth, so calmly and naturally that Duane marveled at the difference between man and woman.
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