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Updated: June 9, 2025
The same people I knew first on the night after Jean Pahusca's attempt on Marjie's life, when we were hunting our cows out on the West Prairie, came now in reality before me. The Sweetwater Valley spread out under the late sunshine of a March day was rimmed about by low hills.
Quietly, as though nothing had occurred, he took up his work, his face as impenetrable as Jean Pahusca's. My resemblance to my mother is strong. As I bent over his desk to gather up some papers for copying, my heavy dark hair almost brushed his cheek. I did not know then how his love for me was struggling with his sense of duty. "I have trusted him too much, and given him too free a rein.
But who is this shadow of Jean Pahusca's a priest in civilization, a renegade on the Plains? Not only the face and voice of the man I saw, but his gait, the set of his shoulders, all were Le Claire to a wrinkle." "Phil, it couldn't have been him in September. The praist was at Springvale then, and he went out on Dever's stage white and sick, hurrying to Kansas City.
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