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Updated: June 28, 2025
Lately, he had often thought of going right away, to enjoy himself for the rest of his life. He had made one complete disappearance already; why not make another? Before he went townwards again that morning, he was beginning to give serious attention to the idea. Meanwhile, however, there was the business of the day to attend to, and Stoner's absence threw additional work on the two partners.
"Who saw such things?" he asked, hoarsely. "Christian Schell, of Stoner's scout." "Now God curse them if they lift an arm to harm a Tryon County man!" he burst out. "I'll not believe it of the British gentlemen who differ with us over taxing tea! No, dammy if I'll credit such a monstrous thing as this alliance!"
This led them back naturally to a discussion of Stoner's latest promotion; he called it the Lost Bull well, and the circumstances connected therewith he related with a subtlety of humor rare in a man of his sorts.
"Kirkland saw Brant," he persisted, obstinately. "Yes, and sent a secret report to Albany. If there had been good news in that report, you Tryon County men had heard it long since, Sir Lupus." "With whom have you been talking, sir?" he sneered, removing his pipe from his yellow teeth. "With one of your tenants yesterday, a certain Christian Schell, lately returned with Stoner's scout."
"I do not know Mrs. Gleason personally," remarked Landis, "but we have the same set of friends. No doubt if I should tell her that I'm Robert Stoner's daughter, she'd out-do herself to be kind to me." "Why," said Elizabeth guilelessly, "was she such a friend of your father's?" Landis shrugged her shoulders. "My father was a man of some prominence," was the response.
There were the initials M. & C. There was a date if it was a date 81. What in Kitely's memorandum the initials S. B. might mean, it was useless to guess at. His memorandum, indeed, was as cryptic as an Egyptian hieroglyph. But Stoner's memorandum was fuller, more explicit. The M. & C. of the Kitely entry had been expanded to Mallows and Chidforth.
"Tell that man who follows me that I could have slain him twice within the hour; once at the ford, once on Stoner's hill. Does he take me for a deer? Does he believe I wear war-paint? There is no war betwixt the Mohawks and the Boston people yet! Tell that fool to go home!" "What fool?" I asked, troubled. "You will meet him journeying the wrong way," said the Indian, grimly.
Now David Myler was a commercial traveller a smart fellow of Stoner's age. He was in the service of a Darlington firm of agricultural implement makers, and his particular round lay in the market-towns of the south and south-west of England.
Stoner's body would be found, next day, the day after, some day and when it was found, people would say that Stoner had been sitting on those rotten railings, and they had given way, and he had fallen and whatever marks there were on him would be attributed to the fall down the sharp edges of the old quarry.
He had stood with his right hand behind him, grasping his heavy oaken stick now, as his rage suddenly boiled, he swung hand and stick round in a savage blow at his tormentor, and the crook of the stick fell crashing against Stoner's temples. So quick was the blow, so sudden the assault, that the clerk had time to do no more than throw up an arm.
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