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Updated: June 23, 2025
Jack Dalton was questioned and said that there were plenty of wild ducks below the Philbrook preserve at a locality known as the Marshes and he told them how to get there. "But you want to be careful about walking over the Marshes," he said. "In the summer time there are lots of bog holes, an' it ain't none too safe in the winter time."
A woman like Vesta Philbrook might go mad under the unceasing pressure and chafing of that load. When they came to where his tools and wire lay beside the fence, she stopped. Lambert dismounted in silence, tied a coil of wire to his saddle, strung the chain of the wire-stretcher on his arm.
Nobody could blame Philbrook for defending his rights, but they seemed such worthless possessions to stake one's life against day by day, year after year. The feud of the fence was like a cancerous infection. It spread to and poisoned all that the wind blew on around the borders of that melancholy ranch.
It was a large house, and seemed larger for its prominence against the sky, built in the shape of a T, with wide porches in the angles. And to this place, upon which he had lavished what remained of his fortune, Philbrook brought his wife and little daughter, as strange to their surroundings as the delicate flowers which pined and drooped in that unfriendly soil.
But stragglers from the main herd would find a big gap like that in a few hours, and the rustlers lying in wait would hurry them away. One such loss as that and he would be a disgraced man in the eyes of Vesta Philbrook, and the laughing-stock of the rascals who put it through.
Vesta Philbrook stood at the gate and watched them go, reproaching herself for her silence in the presence of this man who had come to her assistance with such sure and determined hand.
His courage came up again; he leaned a little nearer, laying his hand on hers where it rested on her saddle-horn. "You wanted me to come, didn't you, Grace?" "I hoped you might come sometime, Duke." He rode with her when she set out to return home to the little valley where he had interposed to prevent a tragedy between her and Vesta Philbrook. Neither of them spoke of that encounter.
Taterleg had not come this time on account of the Iowa boy having quit his job. There remained several hundred calves and thin cows in the Philbrook pasture, too much of a temptation to old Nick Hargus and his precious brother Sim to be left unguarded.
Into this atmosphere there had come, many years before, one of those innocents among men whose misfortune it is to fall before the beguilements of the dishonest; that sort of man whom the promoters of schemes go out to catch in the manner of an old maid trapping flies in a cup of suds. Milton Philbrook was this man.
This truth he came to later, together with the knowledge that his land was worth, at the most extravagant valuation, not more than fifty cents an acre. Finding no market for his brown coal, Philbrook decided to adopt the customs of the country and turn cattleman.
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