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Updated: September 8, 2025
"You're discharged no longer working for the Lunar Company." Harrison's face became an apoplectic purple. He stood with clenched fists glaring at the director, ready to explode with rage. It was a part of his vanity that he had not supposed for an instant that Threewit would let him go. But it happened that the director had a temper of his own.
Any one who's got any other idea had better call at the office for his time." "Meaning me, Mr. Director?" demanded Harrison menacingly. "Meaning you or anybody else that won't keep the rules I set for the company I run," retorted the director sharply. "Forget it, Threewit. I'm no kid. Nobody runs me with rules. I do as I please." "You'll not make trouble in my company."
A patriot can't be too particulair. He uses the tools that come to his hands. But pardon! My tongue is like a woman's. It runs away with time." He called the guard and had the prisoners removed. They were put in the same adobe hut where Yeager had been confined a few days earlier. Threewit lit a cigar and paced up and down gloomily. "This is a hell of a fix we're in.
"I ce'tainly must 'a' spilled the beans. Looks like I done barked up the wrong tree," he drawled amiably. A man who had been standing on a box behind some kind of a masked battery jumped down and joined the group. "Gee! I've got a bully picture of our anxious friend laying out Harrison. Nothing phony about that, Threewit. Won't go in this reel, but she'll make a humdinger in some other.
Pasquale and Culvera passed back from the end of the porch into the house. As they went the trooper heard another stray fragment in the voice of the general. "If Harrison crosses the line after him at night...." That was all, but it told Cabenza that Harrison was negotiating with Lennox for the delivery of Yeager in exchange for Threewit and Farrar.
The clerk thought. "No, I reckon not. There was Mr. Simmons but that was most an hour since." "Nobody else?" "No. Why?" The range-rider turned to the stairs, took them three at a time, and followed the corridor to Room 217. He hammered on the door with his fist. A sleepy voice wanted to know who was there. "It's Steve Yeager, Mr. Threewit. I wanta see you."
He handed to the other man the note Steve had written for Threewit. The prizefighter read it in the dim light laboriously. "It was written, you perceive, before Pasquale shoved his big head into a trap and gave him a chance to escape," explained the insurgent officer. As Harrison read, certain phases of the situation arranged themselves before his dull mind.
A thousand apologies to your Uncle Sam. Oh, yes! Ver' sorry. Too late to mend, but then have we not shot the foolish peon who made the mistake in regard to Señors Farrar and Threewit? Yes, indeed." Culvera tossed off his genial prophecy with the politest indifference. The prisoners read in his words a threat, sinister and scarcely veiled.
The general finished his bottle of wine before he turned savagely upon them. "You are friends of the Gringo Yeager. Not so?" he accused. It was too late for a denial now. Threewit admitted the charge. "So. Maldito! What are you doing here? I've had enough of you Yankees!" he exploded. Before Threewit had more than begun his explanations he brushed aside the director's words.
Threewit about us going on ahead and not waiting for him." The prizefighter did not quite like the idea. He would rather have kept the note himself and burnt it later. But it was out of his charge now. Without stirring doubts he could not make any objection. Anyhow, he would be in Sonora and safely married to Ruth long before the deception was discovered. Mrs.
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