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Updated: May 17, 2025
Stratton is a splendid woman," began Ned, after another pause. "Very. Her father was a splendid man, too. He was a doctor, quite famed in his profession. The misery and degradation he saw among the poor made him a passionate Communist. Stratton's father was a Chartist, one of those who maintained that it was a bread-and-butter movement." For some few minutes neither spoke.
Lynch spoke in a labored whisper; his eyes were glazing. "Yuh thinks I'm loco. I ain't. It's gospel truth. Yuh find Quinlan, the the witness. No, Quinlan's dead. It's it's Kaylor. Kaylor got got What was I sayin'." He plucked feebly at his chap-belt. "I know. Kaylor got a clean thousand for for swearin' the signature was Stratton's. Yuh find Kaylor. Hardenberg ... thumbscrew ... the truth...."
They were up at dawn, ate a hurried breakfast, and then set out along the trail. Where the Rocking-R track branched off they paused for a few casual words of farewell, and then each went his way. A few hundred yards beyond, Buck turned in his saddle just in time to see Jessup, leading Stratton's old mount, ride briskly into a shallow draw and disappear.
At the sight of Buck the sourness became accentuated and increased still more when he observed the ashes on the floor. His only reply to Stratton's introduction of himself was a grunt and Buck lost no time in easing the fellow's mind of any fear of a prolonged spell of company. Even then Gabby's gloom scarcely lightened.
Stratton's own pastor, the Rev. Mr. Willey, of Bridgeport, Connecticut, read the service with admirable taste and impressiveness, and the bride was given away by her mother's pastor and her own "next friend," a venerable Congregational clergyman from Massachusetts.
Impulsively Lynch's right hand dropped to his gun but as his fingers touched the stock he found himself staring at the uptilted end of Stratton's holster frayed a little at the end so that the glint of a blued steel barrel showed through the leather. "Just move your hand a mite," Buck suggested in a quiet, level tone, which was nevertheless obeyed promptly. "Now, listen here.
Months had passed, and while Harry was as careful at some houses as before, Miss Stratton's was not among that number. Harry had three 'customers on that street and he nightly walked only as far toward Miss Stratton's as would enable him to throw her paper and then, with two or three steps, throw another paper to the neighbor diagonally across the street.
There was no hint of reluctance in his manner, nor lack of efficiency in the lowering droop of his big shoulders or the way his fists fell automatically into position. His face had hardened into a fierce mask, out of which savage eyes blazed fearlessly. An instant later, like the spring of a panther, Stratton's lean, lithe body launched forward.
"Don't let that worry you," he said, a faint little twinkle in his eyes. "It isn't good for anybody to have their own way all the time. Well, you know what to do about Bemis. If he shows any signs of fever, get hold of me right away." With a wave of his hand he rode off. Stratton's glance followed him curiously.
Then, of a sudden, her glance fell upon the cartridge-belt hanging on the wall, from whose pendant holster protruded the butt of an efficient-looking six-shooter Stratton's weapon, which, like everything else in the room, she had left religiously as she found it.
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