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Updated: June 28, 2025
Lounsbury took a deep breath. "It's likely," he said aloud. "It don't take courage to kill a cripple." The wheels were yet turning when Lounsbury swung off. His looped belt had been buckled on, and once more his revolver hung handily upon his thigh. As he tossed his satchel to the ticket-agent, he gave the ".45" a swift look over.
"No more of that," Bill cautioned. The man's eyes smoldered with resentment, but for the moment he was cowed. "Before you start anything more, hear what I've got to offer you." His voice lowered, and the words came rather painfully. "It's your one chance, Lounsbury to come back. Virginia Tremont has come into the North, looking for you. She's at my camp. She wants to take you back with her."
Lounsbury threw up his well hand helplessly. "No name was splendid enough for her not one. But he called her for want of a better, mind you he called her the Rose of the South." "Bully! bully!" accompanied by the clapping of hands. The door from the entry opened. Dallas came slowly out. "Go on," urged Felicia, "'Rose of the South?" But Lounsbury was looking at Dallas.
Blakely hung his weight on a foot and, coughing behind his plump hand, bobbed his answer: "Steam's up, sir." Lounsbury had the centre of the floor. He kept it, reaching out to bring Dallas beside him. They stood while the others crowded up to give them well wishes and to tell them good-night. Last of all came David Bond. "My daughter, my son," he said, "God bless you!"
The man motioned, and held out a white something. It was an envelope, grimy and unaddressed. Lounsbury ripped it open and pulled out a written sheet. It was partly through the generous employment of his imagination that the storekeeper was able to make out the scrawl, which, though not signed, he knew to be the pilot's.
He understood now Harold's disappointment and emotion when Bill had discovered the mine. Likely his own name was Harold Rutheford, or else Rutheford's true name had been Lounsbury. Bill stood shivering all over with rage and hate. Now he knew the road of vengeance! He had only to trace Harold Lounsbury back to his city there to find his father's murderer.
Yes?" he said approvingly; then hesitated in suspicion as he measured the storekeeper. "Oh, I guess I don't want to be no interpreter," he said. Lounsbury smiled. "Just as you say, just as you say. Boys," cheerily "sorry if I cut in at the wrong time. Don't let us stop your fun. Mr. Fraser is not here officially." A murmur ran around. The disturbing trooper advanced toward Matthews aggressively.
Lounsbury you meant, honey, wasn't it?" The suspicion that had troubled the mind of the younger girl was allayed. "Why, Dallas, how could you think such a thing about me! Like a soldier? My, no! It was Mr. Lounsbury but he don't like me." She got up and went to the foot of her father's bunk. When she reappeared, she was carrying the soap-box that held her belongings.
And he stared at the other face a rather handsome, thin-lipped, sardonic-eyed face as if he were looking at a ghost. "Great God," he cried. "It's Harold Lounsbury!" But instantly he knew it could not be Harold Lounsbury. The picture was fully twenty-five years old and the face was that of a mature man, probably aged thirty. Harold Lounsbury himself was only thirty.
Much to his chagrin, he found the evangelist there, ready to be present at the interview with the hostages. But the Indians understood his predicament, and accepted the speech he made for the little it was worth. It was a speech that, repeated by David Bond, set Colonel Cummings' last suspicion at rest. Lounsbury arrived at Fort Brannon the next day, appearing in time for breakfast.
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