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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Do you rickolect," quavered a spry young cub of eighty-two who talked of the Civil War and the Nez Perce uprising as though they were the events of yesterday, "do you remember the time 'Death-on-the-Trail' lost his hull outfit tryin' to git through the 'Devil's Teeth'? The idee of an old feller like him startin' out alone! Why he was all of seventy."
Then you are the first pusson to tell me." "How long was it, after you saw the man, before you heard the whistle of the freight train?" "As nigh as I kin rickolect about a half a hour, but not quite." "Was it raining at all when you saw the woman standing on the track?" "Naw, sir. The trees was dripping steady, but the moon was shining."
Steve pointed to them. "Rickolect whut I tol' you about hell a-comin' about that terbaccer?" Jason nodded. "Well, hit's come." His tone was ominous, personal, and disturbed the boy. "Look here, Steve," he said earnestly, "haven't you had enough now? Ain't you goin' to settle down and behave yourself?" The man's face took on the snarl of a vicious dog. "No, by God! I hain't.
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