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Updated: May 1, 2025
He knew that he was falling hopelessly in love had fallen hopelessly in love. This was the position when the evening of the day came on which the rancher's invitation to Fyles had been despatched. The supper hash had been devoured by healthy men with healthy appetites. Work was practically over, there was nothing more to be done but feed, water, and bed down the horses.
Jake had left the verandah, and, in the moonlight, Tresler could see him moving down the hill in the direction of his shack. He followed him swiftly. But he was too late. The whole thing happened before his very eyes, while he was yet too far off to stay the ruthless act, before his warning shout could serve. He saw a figure dart out from the rancher's stable. He saw it halt and stand.
"Say, Jack, if they ever do locate us, we're in a regular mouse-trap," exclaimed Ralph, gazing back into the cave, which had no outlet except at the front. "Can't be helped. Needs must when a certain person drives," responded the rancher's son. "Listen, they're coming closer." The trampling of their pursuer's horses could, in fact, now be heard quite distinctly in the gulch below.
He gazed at Lablache, that obese mountain of blubber, and tried to think of the beautiful, wild Jacky as the money-lender's wife. The thing seemed so preposterous that he burst out into a mocking laugh. Lablache, whose fishy eyes had never left the rancher's face, heard the tone and slowly flushed with anger. For an instant he seemed about to rise, then instead he leant forward.
Some haunting doubt of this flashed over her mind like a swift shadow of a black wing, but she dispelled that as she had dispelled the fear and disgust which often rose up in her mind. To Columbine's surprise and to the rancher's concern the prospective bridegroom did not return from Kremmling on the second day. When night came Belllounds reluctantly gave up looking for him.
Such was the rancher's faith in this wild, impetuous girl that he looked for her judgment on what had passed in that room with the ready faith of one who regards her as almost infallible, where human intellect is needed. Nor was the girl, herself, slow to respond to his mute inquiry. The swiftness of her answer enhanced the tone of her conviction. "Set a thief to catch a thief, Uncle John.
They shook hands, while Anderson boomed out: "Hello, son! I sure am glad to welcome you to 'Many Waters." No doubt as to the rancher's warm and hearty greeting! It warmed some of the coldness out of Dorn's face. "Thank you. It's good to come yet it's it's hard." Lenore saw his throat swell. His voice seemed low and full of emotion. "Bad news to tell," said Anderson.
"It doesn't take even as much as a blaze like this to start a stampede," said Bud, as he and his cousins rode nearer to the burning grass, They could feel the heat of it, now. "It's queer how frightened animals are of fire," went on the rancher's son.
Soon they will fill the valley, and Drifting Crane and his people will be surrounded. The sod will all be black." "I hope you're right," was the rancher's grim reply. "But they will not come if the cattleman go back to say the water is not good. There is no grass, and the Indians own the land." Wilson smiled at the childish faith of the chief. "Won't do, chief won't do. That won't do any good.
The rancher's ideal of an agreeable old age comprised three important items to wit, complete leisure, unlimited freedom of speech, and two pints of rye whisky daily. He enjoyed them all impartially, until, about a year before this story opens, he died profanely and comfortably. He had a big funeral, and was sincerely mourned by a coterie of gouty old Indian-fighters.
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