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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Rebstock," said he, in a tone that Bucks had not heard before from him, "take your personal effects, all of you and nothing else and load them on a flatboat. I will give you one hour to get-out of here." Rebstock almost fell over backward. He wheezed in amazement. There was an outburst of indignant protests. A dozen men clamored at once.
You're a young man, and handy; it wouldn't cost you a cent, and you can have half of the whole shooting-match if you'll cross Deep Creek and help me run the gang." Such was Rebstock free from anxiety and in a confidential moment. Under pressure he was, like all men, different.
Du Sang, whose eyelashes were white, blinked at the hole through the card, and looked around as he rode back across the field for the man that had held it; but Whispering Smith had disappeared. He was at that moment walking past the barbecue pit with George McCloud. "Rebstock talks a great deal about your shooting, Gordon," said McCloud to his companion.
"Barney Rebstock," he murmured, "of all men! Coward, skate, filler-in! Barney Rebstock stale-beer man, sneak, barn-yard thief! Hit two men!" He turned to McCloud. "What kind of a wizard is Murray Sinclair? What sort of red-blood toxin does he throw into his gang to draw out a spirit like that? Murray Sinclair belongs to the race of empire-builders.
"There is nothing to show that till we get them and we ought to be after them now," returned the scout. "But," he added softly as he hitched his trousers, "I think one of the two might be young John Rebstock." "You need lose no time, Bob. Here are ten men with fresh horses at your orders." Stanley pointed to the troopers who were unloading their mounts.
"He's the meanest man between here and Fort Bridger," asserted Dancing. "He'd think no more of shooting you than I would of scratching a match." Bucks stared at the comparison. "He is the worst scoundrel in this country and partners with Seagrue and John Rebstock in everything that's going on, and even they are afraid of him." Dancing stopped for breath.
"When one of your men is sick and needs wine, let me know," returned McCloud; "I'll see that he gets it. Your men don't wear silk dresses, do they?" he asked, pointing to another case of goods under the driver's seat. "Have that stuff all hauled back and loaded into a box car on track." "Not by a damned sight!" exclaimed Sinclair. He turned to his ranch driver, Barney Rebstock.
I've no desire to crowd any man to the wall that is a man. Now I am going to tell you the simple truth. Du Sang has got you scared to death. That man is a faker, Rebstock. Because he kills men right and left without any provocation, you think he is dangerous. He isn't; there are a dozen men in the Cache just as good with a gun as Du Sang is. Don't shake your head. I know what I'm talking about.
The superintendent eyed him, but made no response. Sinclair led his men to the wagon, and they piled into it till the box was filled. Barney Rebstock had the reins again, and the mules groaned as the whip cracked. Those that could not climb into the wagon as it moved off straggled along behind, and the air was filled with cheers and curses.
We're just a-camping in a bunch. What's a-matter? Seagrue here," he nodded to a sharp-jawed companion, "and Perry," he added, jerking his thumb toward the scarred-faced man, "and me own these two big tents in partners." "What's your name?" "My name's Rebstock." "Produce the axes stolen here from these two men," said Stanley, indicating the choppers behind him.
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