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Updated: May 31, 2025
"I could not sleep to-day," Jack answered. "I don't feel as if I could sleep until I've seen Prather and heard his story my story Firio!" And he lay with eyes half closed, staring at the steel blue overhead. It was well after midday when they mounted for the remainder of the journey.
I knew we were not going through the sand! Firio and I knew!" So rapidly were they gaining that, when past the sand and they turned back westward, it was only a question of half an hour or so to come up with Prather and Nogales. Nogales had been riding ahead; but now Prather, after gazing over his shoulder for some time at his pursuers, took the lead.
"Yes," Jack murmured thoughtfully, as if inviting Prather to go on with anything further he might have to say. "All mine mine!" Prather concluded, in a sort of hypnosis with his own picture. Jack still stared at the earth, his profile limned in gold and the side of his face toward Prather in shadow.
Prather was crawling down the side of the arroyo on his belly, digging his hands into the dirt, his face white and contorted and his eyes shifting back and forth in ghastly incomprehension. His horse followed him and sank down in final surrender to exhaustion. By common impulse, Jack and Firio seized the rifles from Jag Ear's pack, while Nogales, a spectator, squatted beside Prather.
And the ways by which he sought to carry out his achievement! These baffled any comprehension born of Opdyke's brain. The day after the doctor's expressed anxiety as concerned the Brenton baby, Prather, coming to call, was more than ordinarily specific.
"Since the Doge came old man Lefferts has had to do no work at all. A Mexican looks after him. But it hasn't made him any happier," Bob explained as they approached. "Howdy yourself?" growled Lefferts in answer to Bob's greeting. "He seems to be a character!" whispered Prather to Bob, as he smiled at the prospect. "To confess the truth, I am a little saddle sore and tired.
Jack was on his knee, with the broad, level glare full on him, looking at Prather, who was in the shadow; and his reflections were mixed with that pity which one feels toward another who is lame or blind or suffers for the want of any sense or faculty that is born to the average human being.
At last it buzzed, and the long form relaxed its stiffening. Half past five! That meant the shortest possible time for talk. Still, it would be better than nothing; the half-loaf would keep him from going hungry to bed. His eyes were eager, as he watched the door. Then the eagerness went out of them. The door swung open. Not Olive, but Prather, the fussy little novelist, came in.
No persiflage! No altitudinous conversation of the kind that grows no crops. Prather wants to learn, and he's got good, clean ideas, with a trained and accurate mind the best possible combination.
And he strode through the office door, which he closed behind him sharply, in reminder that the interview was at an end. As Jack went down the steps into the night, the face of John Prather, with a satirical turn to the lips, was preceding him.
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