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Updated: June 29, 2025
"I explained that to you four days ago, but you said you'd got to get a sheep. I thought I could eat snowballs as long as you could. But I didn't look for such a storm as this." "There's nothing?" demanded Sprudell, aghast. "Oh, yes, there's somethin'," grimly. "I kin take the ax and break up a couple of them doughnuts and bile the coffee grounds again.
Sprudell felt he was going to die. If his shaking knees should suddenly give way beneath him he could see, by craning his neck slightly, the exact spot where he was going to land. His chest, plump and high like a woman's, rose and fell quickly with his hard breathing, and the barrel of his rifle where he clasped it was damp with nervous perspiration.
Dill's orders were to get upon the ground which had been worked in a primitive way by a fellow named Bruce Burt now deceased he was told and relocate it in Sprudell's name together with seven other contiguous claims, using the name of dummy locators which would give Sprudell control of one hundred and sixty acres by doing the assessment work upon one.
You will be as surprised, when I tell you who it was, as I was to see him. Have you guessed? I'm sure you haven't. None other than our friend Sprudell very apologetic very humble and contrite, and with an explanation to offer for his behavior that was really most ingenious. There's no denying he has cleverness of a kind craft, perhaps, is a better word.
The admonition revived Sprudell as applications of snow and ice water had not done. He looked in wide-mouthed inquiry at Bruce. Bruce's somber eyes darkened as he explained briefly: "We had a fuss, and he went crazy. He tried to get me with the ax."
Bruce's hand was on the door-knob, but he lingered, ignoring the most urgent invitation to go that he ever had seen in any face. "I'm busy, Abe," Sprudell said so sharply that his old friend stared. "You are intruding. You should have sent your name." Bruce closed the door which he had partially opened and came back. "Don't mind me," he said slowly, looking at Sprudell.
His small mouth, with its full, red lips shaped like the traditional cupid's bow, was colorless, and there was abject terror in his infantile blue eyes. Yet superficially, T. Victor Sprudell was a brave figure picturesque as the drawing for a gunpowder "ad," a man of fifty, yet excellently well preserved.
A hint of his interesting personality would make an effective preface, he thought, and a short sketch of his childhood culminating in his successful business career. "Out there in the silences, where the peaks pierce the blue " began Mr. Sprudell dreamily. "Where?" Miss Dunbar felt for a pencil. "Er Bitter Root Mountains." The business-like question and tone disconcerted him slightly. Mr.
"You'll hardly be startin' back to-morrow, will you, Burt?" "To-morrow? No, nor the next day." There was a hard ring in Bruce's voice. "I've changed my mind. I'm going outside! I'm going to Bartlesville, Indiana, to see Sprudell!" "Good!" enthusiastically. "And if you has cause to lick that pole kitty hit him one for me."
Why should there be that lurking horror and hostility in her eyes? What had Sprudell told her? On a sudden desperate impulse and before Sprudell could stop him, he walked up to her and asked doggedly, though his temerity made him hot and cold: "Why do you look at me as if I were an enemy? What has Sprudell been telling you?"
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