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Updated: May 3, 2025
He apparently was having some difficulty with the cylinder, for his face was red. Her father was eying the gun with the critical approval of an expert. "Father," said Miss Cahill petulantly, "why didn't you answer? Where is the blue stationery the sort Major Ogden always buys? He's waiting." The eyes of the post-trader did not wander from the gun before him.
"Same as most of 'em quit." "Nothing?" "Nothing." "Been satisfactory?" "Never had a boy more so. Good-hearted, willing, a plumb dare-devil with a horse." "And worthless," suggested the post-trader. "Well not yet. He's headed that way." "Been punching cattle long?" "Came in the country about seventy-eight, I believe, and rode for the Bordeaux Outfit most a year, and quit.
When she returned she found Indian Pete in charge of the exchange. Her father, he told her, had ridden to the Indian village in search of her. As he spoke the post-trader appeared. "I'm sorry I missed you," his daughter called to him. At the sound Cahill pulled his horse sharply toward the corral. "I had a horse-deal on with the chief," he answered over his shoulder.
Young Lapierre's action was condemned and he was dismissed from the Company's service with a payment of three years' unearned salary whereupon, he promptly turned free-trader, and his knowledge of the methods of the H.B.C., the Indians, and the country, made largely for success. The life of the free-trader satisfied his longing for travel and adventure, which his life as a post-trader had not.
We were at Randolph a long time, and since then he's been post-trader at Bethune. That's all I know about it, for dad never talked very much, and he used to get mad when I asked him questions." Hampton dropped the locket from his grasp, and arose to his feet.
Going to the sutler's store, he sold his ambulance to the post-trader, and a part of the proceeds he secretly invested in whisky, which could always be secured by the Indians from rascally men about a Post, notwithstanding the military and civil laws. He then mounted his horse and rode rapidly to his village.
Cahill Scotch was it, or rye?" Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of Cahill, and then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick out his head. "Sergeant," he called, "make them both Scotch long ones." He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. "Now, then, father- in-law," he said, briskly, "you've got to cut and run, and you've got to run quick.
I can talk better when you are not here. I'll soon bring him around." "Father," pleaded Miss Cahill, timidly. From behind her back Ranson shook his head at the post-trader in violent pantomime. "She'd better go outside and wait, hadn't she, Mr. Cahill?" he directed. As he was bidden, the post-trader raised his head and nodded toward the door.
Feefty-Mile Swamp ees a monster that swallows men alive, Monsieur. You wait one week two week t'ree week, and some one will turn up to take you through," he urged. "But I can't wait. And I have an official map of the trail. Why can't I follow it without a guide?" Elliot wanted to know impatiently. The post-trader shrugged. "Maybeso, Monsieur maybe not. Feefty-Mile it ees one devil of a trail.
Just as they were about to give up in despair, a jealous woman revealed the fact that Caleb P. Marsh, of New York, had received the appointment of post-trader at Fort Sill through the endeavors of his wife with the wife of the Secretary of War, General Belknap.
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