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Updated: June 21, 2025
Not a dog-gone cent among 'em, an', what's more, owin' blind hulks a whole heap o' bills on mortgage. Say, that was mostly a weak move him askin' the boss fer help. Why, I guess old Marbolt hates hisself on'y one shade wuss'n he hated Manson Orr. Say, boys, ef we're askin' to lynch Red Mask, we ain't askin' in any fancy name like 'Orr. Savee?"
The silent onlookers parted, leaving a sort of aisle to the bedside, and Julian Marbolt came shuffling his way through them, heralded by the regular tap, tap, of his guiding stick. It was with many conflicting emotions that Tresler looked round when he heard the familiar sound. He stared at the man as he might stare at some horrid beast of prey, fascinated even against himself.
The rancher took him up sharply. "What do you mean?" "Arizona has no love for Anton." "Ah! And Jake. Who found him? Who was there when he died?" Marbolt's eyes had fixed themselves on Tresler's face. And the latter had no hesitation in suiting his reply to his own purpose. "I found him dead; quite dead. His death must have been instantaneous." "So." Marbolt turned back to the bed.
As Julian Marbolt passed out the men kept silence, and even when the distant tapping of his stick had died away. Tresler looked round him at these hardy comrades of his with something like delight in his eyes. Joe was not there, which matter gave him satisfaction. The faithful little fellow was at his post to care for Diane. Now he turned to Harris.
Diane brought a message from the doctor asking her father and the sheriff to join him. Marbolt displayed unusual alacrity, and Fyles followed him as he tapped his way up to the sick-room. Here the stick was abandoned, and he was led to his seat by his daughter. Diane was pale, but alert and determined; while her father wore a gentle look of the utmost concern.
It was like you, Miss Marbolt," Tresler said, with a genuine look of admiration at the dark little face so overshadowed by the sun-hat. "Don't be so ready to credit me with virtues I do not possess. We women are curious. Curiosity is one of our most pronounced features. Poor souls their home is gone. Utterly utterly gone. Oh, Mr. Tresler, what are we to do?
"But Marbolt told Jake he bought her from a half-breed outfit." "Dare say he did." Fyles relit his pipe for about the twentieth time, which caused Tresler to hand him his pouch. "Try tobacco," he said, with a smile. The sheriff accepted the invitation with unruffled composure. The gentle sarcasm passed quite unheeded.
I've seen Julian Marbolt mad madder'n hell; but I ain't never seen him jest as mad as he is against your beau. When Tresler gits right he's got to quit quick. I've been wonderin' what's fixed your father like that. Guess you ain't been crazy enough to tell him that Tresler's been sparkin' you?"
Believe me, I hardly know what to believe, and what not to believe; I hardly know what to think. I can only speak as my instinct guides me. Oh, Mr. Tresler, I I can trust you. Yes I know I can." The girl's appeal had its effect. Tresler reached up and caught the little outstretched hands. "Yes, you can trust me, Miss Marbolt," he said with infinite kindness.
He told it almost exactly as he had told it to Jake, but with one slight difference: he gave no undue emphasis to his presence in the vicinity of the house. And Marbolt listened closely, the frowning brows bespeaking his concentration, and his unmoving eyes his fixed attention.
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