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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Unless I miss the old man a mile he's already got a messenger headed for the troops at Fort Huachuca," interposed Macomber. "He ain't fool enough to take chances on a local sheriff." "You're tooting he ain't," approved Buck Johnson. "It's got to be quick work." "Burn him out," said Watkins. "It's the young lady's property," hesitated my boss. "I kind of hate to destroy it unless we have to."
"Blue Roan an' Peg, by Creech; Whitefoot, by Macomber; Rocks, by Holley; Hoss-shoes, by Blinn; Bay Charley, by Burthwait. Then thar's the two mustangs entered by Old Hoss an' Silver an' last Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil." "What's thet last?" queried Bostil. "Wildfire, by Lucy Bostil," repeated Brackton. "Has the girl gone an' entered a hoss?" "She sure has.
"Miss Lucy might see No, she's out of sight. But, mebbe some other woman is around." "Hold on, Bill," called Macomber. "You never saw an Indian run like thet." Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest. "Sure his face is white, if his body's red!" The strange figure neared them. It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast.
The house and barn both belonged to Aunt Stanshy, property that had been willed her by her father, Solomon Macomber, whose body slept under the wings of a blue-stone cherub in the cemetery. Her nephew, Charles, on the death of his wife, came to live with Aunt Stanshy, bringing his infant heir. When the father died, little Charlie was left in Aunt Stanshy's care.
I says all right, if he'll play something neutral; and Doc says he'll play "Listen to the Mocking Bird," with variations, and play it so swell you'll think you're perched right up in the treetops listening to Nature's own feathered songsters. That about made up my show, including, of course, the Spanish dance by Beryl Mae Macomber.
"It's de best barn in de lane," said Juggie Jones, a little colored boy, his dark eyes lighting up with true interest. "Well, I think it is a pretty good barn," rejoined Charlie Macomber, with apparent unconcern. At the same time a secret pride was dwelling in his bosom, that suddenly made his jacket too tight for him.
Some of the boys knew you wouldn't let me, but I said you would. I knew you would let a feller take it," said the ingenious Charlie. "For pity's sake, Charles Pitt Macomber, what next?" This was Charlie's real name and used for greater impressiveness. "That broom-handle is what I fasten the back window with, and if any bugglars get in tonight, I must blame you."
"He is not my little boy really," explained Aunt Stanshy, and then she went on to say who Charlie was, and also told about other things, finally saying so much concerning the Macomber family that he ceased to be a stranger and seemed to become a relative, a species of long-absent son, and consistently what could Aunt Stanshy do but let Will Somers an arrival in Seamont only a few hours old have that sacred apartment her front room?
Of course any of 'em looked quiet after Henrietta's costume, for none of the girls but Beryl Mae Macomber, a prominent young society bud, aged seventeen, had done anything like that. But it was the idea of the thing.
In these cases we see what cannot be witnessed at home, and what thousands of pious women would shrink from as impracticable and impossible. Amid such scenes as these Miss Macomber seems to rise above the measure of a human being, and gain a likeness to Him who went about doing good.
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