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Updated: June 17, 2025
Duane could not possibly attend to all the conversation among the outlaws. He endeavored to get the drift of talk nearest to him. "Kid Fuller's goin' to cash," said a sandy-whiskered little outlaw. "So Jim was tellin' me. Blood-poison, ain't it? Thet hole wasn't bad. But he took the fever," rejoined a comrade. "Deger says the Kid might pull through if he hed nursin'."
"Mine is Horton." "Never mind the names," shortly. "I can learn them later." "We're homesteaders." Again it was stubby, sandy-whiskered McPherson who took the lead. "From where?" "Sioux Falls." "Any news?" Curt as the question came the answer, the tale of massacre now a day old. "And the rest of your settlement where are they?" McPherson told him. "They all went, you say?"
That high old family, the Barnacles, had long been too busy with their great principle to look into the matter; and indeed the matter had nothing to do with their watchfulness in out-generalling all other high old families except the Stiltstalkings. While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her lord returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man of thirty.
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