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Updated: May 8, 2025
"Any time big Bill Wallace drifts this far from his stamping-ground just to look at a ditch I'm dreaming the whole thing," he told himself, as his eyes never left the sheriff's face. "And as for not having seen Swinnerton, that's a lie." Tommy Garton was already scenting something very near the actual truth when the telephone in the front room jangled noisily. "Want me to answer it?"
His flaming wrath burst out at a blundering mistake or at a man's failure to follow to the last letter some short-spoken instructions. It was only one night when Conniston made careless mention of Oliver Swinnerton, and Truxton flew into a towering, cursing rage, that he began to believe that he saw the real reason for Truxton's growing ill temper. "The thievin', mangy, pot-bellied porcupine!"
Only a something akin to the hurt surprise of a child in voice and look alike as Swinnerton queried softly: "No? Pray, why not? What have I done, Mr. Conniston?" "You have proven yourself a scoundrel!" burst out Conniston, angrily. "A fair fight in the open is one thing. Such cowardly means as you take to gain your ends is another.
One to "Dr. John Swinnerton, Physician," in 1688; another to his wife. There, too, is the grave of Nathaniel Mather, the younger brother of Cotton, and mentioned in the Magnalia as a hard student, and of great promise. "An aged man at nineteen years," saith the gravestone. It affected me deeply, when I had cleared away the grass from the half-buried stone, and read the name.
If I have to go back to those bare, blank rooms of mine with the smell of chemicals drifting in from the laboratory, I'll get drunk. That's all!" Here Swinnerton Loughburne lowered the letter to his knees and grasped his head in both hands. Next he turned to the end of the letter and made sure that the signature was "Randall Byrne." He stared again at the handwriting.
Crawford's name was there, and after it was "Urgent," underlined. The note itself ran: "Wallace is here to arrest Conniston for murder of Chinaman shot in whisky rebellion! A put-up game with Swinnerton to stop his work. Tell Conniston to go back to Deep Creek to-night. Send Brayley to me immediately. Let no one else come. I'll entertain the sheriff to-night.
"You'll have to know her better to understand her dual nature, Billie," observed Amy Swinnerton, glancing up from her easel. "After she's been a good housewife and got things shipshape and free from the dust of the road she loves so much, she's ready to turn Gypsy and muss them all up again." "I never mussed anything up in my life," broke in Maggie. "I only clean up other people's musses."
"I got word to-day from the men we have been expecting from Denver. They have gone to work by now." "Under Bat Truxton?" demanded Conniston, quickly. The older man cut off the end of his cigar, rolled the black perfecto between his lips, and lighted it before he replied. "They have gone to work," he repeated, as though discussing a matter of no moment, "for Oliver Swinnerton.
Never has our undertaking seemed so big to me; never have the obstacles loomed so high. I find myself waking up with a start night after night from some horrible dream that the water has failed in the mountains, or that Oliver Swinnerton has stolen all of our men, or that Bat Truxton has gone over to the opposition! Oh, I know that I am foolish. For, as you say, we can't fail.
Swinnerton, who, throughout his long practice, was accustomed personally to concoct the medicines which he prescribed and dispensed.
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