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Updated: June 4, 2025
Thirst was calling Happy Jack; he heeded the summons and disappeared, leaving the new cook to his own devices. So, it would seem, did every other member of the Flying U. Weary had been told that Miss Satterly was in town, and he forgot all about Jakie in his haste to find her.
"You used to know her?" asked Miss Satterly, politely. "Well, I should say yes. I used to go to school with Myrt. How do you like her?" "Lovely," said Miss Satterly, this time without fervor. Weary began digging a trench with his spurs. He wished the schoolma'am would not limit herself so rigidly to that one adjective.
He greeted each one cheerfully by name and waited upon his horse in the shade. Close behind the last sun-bonnet came Miss Satterly, key in hand. Evidently she had no intention of lingering, that night; Weary smiled down upon her tentatively and made a hasty guess as to her state of mind a very important factor in view of what he had come to say.
Miss Satterly helped him reckon his winnings which was not easy to do, since he had been offered all sorts of odds and had accepted them all with a recklessness that was appalling. While her dark head was bent above the piece of paper, and her pencil was setting down figures with precise little jabs, he watched her.
Miss Satterly, observing the mark of high-heeled boots in the immediate vicinity of the grave, caught herself wondering if the remains had been laid away to the tune of "Bill Bailey," with the chorus of "Good Old Summertime" shuffled in to make a full deck. She started to laugh and found that laughter was quite impossible. Suddenly the schoolma'am did a strange thing.
He saw other names above his own on the page; quite a lot of them; seven in fact. Miss Satterly, evidently, was not quite as destitute of friends as her voice, awhile back, would lead one to believe. Happy Jack wondered. "I haven't quite decided what we will have," she remarked briskly. "When I do, we'll all meet some evening in the school-house and talk it over.
Back near the door, feet were scuffling audibly upon the bare floor and a suppressed whistle occasionally cut into the hum of subdued voices. Miss Satterly was growing nervous at the delay, and she repeated her question impatiently to Annie, who was staring at nothing very intently, as she had a fashion of doing. "Yes, ma'am," she answered absently.
The shadows had flowed over the coulee-rim and the hilltops were smothered in gloom when Miss Satterly went home that night, and her aunt Meeker sent her straight to bed and dosed her with horrible home remedies. By morning she had recovered her spirit her revengeful spirit, which she kept as the hours wore on and Weary did not come. She would teach him a lesson, she told herself often.
It was an old, old "bull-dog" revolver, freckled with rust until it bore a strong resemblance to certain noses which Miss Satterly looked down upon daily. The cylinder was plugged with rolls of drab cotton cloth, supposedly in imitation of real bullets. It was obviously during the plugging process that Miss Satterly had been interrupted, for a drab string hung limply from one hole.
He reached backward and drew a shining thing from his pocket, flipped it downward and the effect was unmistakably different. The gopher leaped and rolled backward and then lay still, and Miss Satterly gave a little, startled scream and jumped quite off the doorstep. "Don't yuh see? You couldn't raise any such a dust with yours.
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