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"Dad and I never agree about a horse. He thinks he got the best of you. But you know, Macomber, what a horse-thief you are. Worse than Cordts!" "Wal, if I got the best of Bostil I'm willin' to be thought bad. I'm the first feller to take him in.... An' now, Miss Lucy, look over my sorrel." Lucy Bostil did indeed have an eye for a horse.
Then reaching Broadway and less traffic they rolled along a little more easily, with less tension. "I'm Myrtle Macomber," she at length essayed. "In case you had forgotten." Joe grinned. Then he turned to her, "And my name's Hooper." She gave him another one of her roguish glances through her lashes. "I was trying to remember," she laughed. Then he asked her the way home and she told him.
"An' so you wouldn't own him?" "You couldn't make me a present of him even on my birthday." "Wal, now I'm sorry, for I was thinkin' of thet," replied Macomber, ruefully. It was plain that the sorrel had fallen irremediably in his estimation. "Macomber, I often tell Dad all you horse-traders get your deserts now and then. It's vanity and desire to beat the other man that's your downfall."
Then with enforced calm, and with a glance at the clock, he brushed down his clothes, looked at himself in the glass above the counter, and walked with much careless aplomb out to the car. He had timed it to a nicety. When he got out of the car in front of the Macomber dwelling he had another struggle to keep from appearing self-conscious.
Under her direction they turned into a quiet side street and stopped before a grayish frame house with a fancy bulbous tower at one corner and bilious green outside shutters. A woman was stooped over a flower bed in the centre of the yard. She arose stiffly at their approach. Miss Macomber turned to Joe, but he had already alighted from the car and gone around to help her out.
"Well, I'll tell you," she began. "You've been taking up a mighty lot of Myrtle's time here, lately." He sinkingly realized the truth of this statement as he felt the fixity of her gaze. He was silent. The front door opened over to his left, but he was too absorbed to notice. There was a sound of someone stirring in the vestibule. Mrs. Macomber did not like his silence.
It ended by Miss Ardle coming around and sitting in the front seat to the rapturous discomfort of Miss Penny, whose fat leg was thereby squeezed against the gear-shifting lever where it was in Joe's way for the remainder of the trip. Just before they started, Mrs. Macomber came out of the house carrying a small package which she brought round and entrusted to Joe's care.
And as good as thet you tell the truth. Thet ain't in some hoss-traders I know.... What do you think of this mustang?" Macomber had eyes of enthusiasm for his latest acquisition, but some of the cock-sureness had been knocked out of him by the blunt riders. "Macomber, aren't you a great one to talk?" queried Lucy, severely.
Now, I may say, he is a 'burning and a shining light; one to whom we often point as a witness of the power and purity of the religion of Jesus Christ." Miss Macomber died in April, 1840. The closing scenes of her life were full of sadness and full of glory.
"You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you can't run your neighbours' quarrels with a gun, not anymore. This is a country of law now." "Tom," repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, "come in. Strike a light if you want to: and take a look around. There's a lot of your friends here. There's Jim Carson over in the corner, and Donald Macomber, and Marcus Malley, and Dan Watkins."
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