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Updated: May 4, 2025
We camped out, of course, for in the whole sixty miles there was but one house, and going in that direction there is not a tree to be seen, nothing but sage, sand, and sheep. About noon the first day out we came near a sheep-wagon, and stalking along ahead of us was a lanky fellow, a herder, going home for dinner.
The first deposit, in fact, was made while the sheep-wagon bank rolled along. Two barrels and a plank served as a counter. The two founders had the necessary $5000 capital, and when the cashier went to dinner he took all the money with him, with two six-shooters for protection. He was never robbed. For two years, during the land boom, the bank had not closed, day or night.
It was not for his woman to give him no, said Swan. Be ready at a certain hour in the morning; they must make an early start, for the way was long. But no; she refused to take the burden of a peasant woman on her back. That was the first time Swan knocked her senseless. When she recovered, the sheep-wagon was rocking her in its uneasy journey to the distant range.
They were somewhere about, she was sure of that, for she had recognized gray horses feeding some distance away and the sheep-wagon in which they had left town was drawn up close to the house. She tied her fagged team to the shearing-pens and sauntered toward the house, but with something of uncertainty in her face. There was a chance that she had been seen and the new Mrs.
Only when she stood beside her horse near the sheep-wagon, ready to mount and leave him to his solitary supper, she spoke of Hector Hall's revolvers, which Mackenzie had unstrapped and put aside. "What are you going to do with them, John?"
Swan was barefooted, just as he had leaped from his bunk in the sheep-wagon to ride to the fire. There was a wild, high pride in his cold, handsome face as he sat up in the saddle as if to show Joan his mighty bulk, and he stretched out his long arms like an eagle on its crag flexing its pinions in the morning sun. "Did he did Hector Hall sling a gun on Mr.
Ricketts adapted herself to the situation and made petticoats of her court trains and drove the sheep-wagon décolleté, so Crowheart was more or less accustomed to Mrs. Ricketts in silk and satin. Dr. Harpe did not come down until the evening was well along, but the delay produced the effect she intended.
Harpe looked back at the peaceful scene in the flat below the sheep-wagon with its canvas top, the square, log cabin, the still heap beside it really there was no reason why she should not enjoy exceedingly the drive back to town. Out of the hills behind her came a golden voice that had the carrying qualities of a flute. "Farewell, my own dear Napoli, farewell to thee, farewell to thee."
It was less than an hour after the sheep-wagon had rumbled out of town with Dubois slapping the reins loosely upon the backs of the shambling grays that the telegraph operator, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, bumped into Dr. Harpe as she was leaving the hotel. "Have they gone?" "Who?" but her eyes looked frightened. "Essie and old Dubois." "Ages ago."
"I thought," laughed Mary, "that it was going to be like a picture I saw in a magazine, Mexican hammocks, grass cushions, and a lady pouring tea from a samovar; instead it was the sheep-wagon and ’Do you sleep light or dark?’ There is Mrs. Yellett calling us to dinner. Shall I have a chance to talk to you alone afterwards?"
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