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Updated: May 31, 2025
Whatever his thoughts were, they bound him in a spell which the creaking of Taterleg's saddle, as he shifted in it impatiently, did not disturb. "Couple of fellers just rode up to the gate in the cross-fence back of the bunkhouse," Taterleg reported. The Duke grunted, to let it be known that he heard, but was not interested.
The next moment he was straining his arms above his head as if trying to pull them out of their sockets, and his companion was displaying himself in like manner, Lambert's gun down on them, Taterleg coming in deliberately a second or two behind. "Keep them right there," was the Duke's caution, jerking his head to Taterleg in the manner of a signal understood.
Somewhere along that miserable ride, after daylight had broken and the pieced wire that Grace Kerr had cut had been passed, Lambert fell unconscious across the horn of his saddle from the drain of blood from his wounds and the unendurable pain of his bonds. In this manner the horse came bearing him home at sunrise. Taterleg was away on his beat, not uneasy over Lambert's absence.
Jim began backing off as soon as he had it in his hand, watching Spence alertly. Lambert leaped between them. "Gentlemen, don't go to shootin' over a little thing like this!" he begged. Taterleg came between them, also, and Siwash, quite blocking up the fairway. "Now, boys, put up your guns; this is Sunday, you know," Siwash said. "Give me room, men!"
Lambert and Taterleg had a few drinks to show their respect for the institutions of the country, and went back to the hotel. Somebody had taken Taterleg's place beside Alta on the green bench. It was a man who spoke with rumbling voice like the sound of an empty wagon on a rocky road. Lambert recognized the intonation at once. "It looks to me like there's trouble ahead for you, Mr.
"One of them fellers pulled his gun on that old nigger did you see him, Duke?" "Ye-es, I saw him," said the Duke speculatively, watching the squabble at the distant gate keenly, turning his horse to head that way by a pressure of his knee. "Knocked him flat!" Taterleg set off in a gallop as he spoke, the Duke right after him, soon ahead of him, old Whetstone a yellow streak across the mesa.
Lambert concluded that he was a rival to be reckoned with, but gave Taterleg his own way of coming to that. "That feller's got a watch with a music box in the back of it, Duke. Ever see one of 'em?" "No, I never did." "Well, he's got one of 'em, all right.
He chuckled in his throat, eying the Duke slantingly to see how he took that piece of news. The Duke sat up a little stiffer, his face grew a shade more serious, and that was all the change in him that Taterleg could see. "I hope we can take that kind of work off your hands in the future, Miss Philbrook," he said, his voice slow and grave.
There appeared to be a controversy under way at the gate, to be sure. But rows between employees and employer were common; that wasn't his fuss. Perhaps it wasn't an argument, as it seemed to be from that distance, anyhow. "Did you see that?" Taterleg started his horse forward in a jump as he spoke, reining up stiffly at Lambert's side.
He held it up and looked at it, concluding in the end that it would not serve. With his hairy chaps off, Taterleg did not appear so bow-legged, but he waddled like a crab as they went toward the house to join the companion of their ride. The Duke stopped on the high ground near the house, turned, looked off over the great pasture that had been Philbrook's battle ground for so many years.
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