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Updated: June 23, 2025
And so Eben Munson and John Tighe were honored like the rest, both by their flags and by great and unexpected nosegays of spring flowers, daffies and flowering currant and red tulips, which lay on the graves already. John Stover and his comrade glanced at each other curiously while they stood singing, and then laid their own bunches of lilacs down and came away.
There could no longer be any question of the attitude of the Rutherfords toward him, since he had been of so great service to Beulah. Charlton had renounced his enmity, the ground cut from beneath his feet. Word had reached camp only an hour before of the death of Tighe.
"No-o, but " Dingwell surrendered the point reluctantly. He flashed a question at Rutherford. "Tighe will murder him. That's sure. You going to let him?" "Not if I can help it. I'm going to send young Beaudry out of the park." "Fine. Don't lose any time about it, Hal." The Huerfano Park rancher made one more attempt to shake his prisoner. His dark eyes looked straight into those of Dingwell.
"I've heard about the fight when Sheriff Beaudry was killed. Jess Tighe had his spine injured in it. But I never knew that dad . . . You're sure of it?" she flung at him. "Yes. He led the attackers. I suppose he thought of it as a feud. My father had killed one of his people in a gun fight." She, too, looked into the fire. It was a long time before she spoke, and then in a small, lifeless voice.
Gambling in stocks, according to conditions produced by this panic, seemed very hazardous. A number of brokers failed. He saw them rush in to Tighe with anguished faces and ask that certain trades be canceled. Their very homes were in danger, they said. They would be wiped out, their wives and children put out on the street.
On all sides, so to speak, I saw Christ and Socrates and Shelley valeted by society ... dress suits laid out for them ... carefully pressed and creased ... which, now dead, it was pretended their spirits took up and wore ... had, in fact, always worn.... And my mind went back to those happy days at Eos ... happy despite the fly in the ointment.... I thought of my Southern widow, Mrs. Tighe.
Say, Beulah, have you heard about Jess Tighe?" "What about him?" "He had a stroke last night. Doc Spindler thinks he won't live more than a few hours." Beulah mused over that for a few moments without answer. She had no liking for the man, but it is the way of youth to be shocked at the approach of death. Yet she knew this would help to clear up the situation.
Tighe beat his fist on the table, his face a map of appalling fury and hate. "Let him go to it, then. I've been a cripple seventeen years because Beaudry shot me up. By God! I'll gun his son inside of twenty-four hours. I'll stomp him off'n the map like he was a rattlesnake." "No," vetoed Rutherford curtly. "What! What's that you say?" snarled the other. "I say he'll get a run for his money.
Jess has the mouth of the arroyo guarded to head off Street." "But what's broke? Why should Tighe be so keen on bumping off this pink-ear when dad says no?" "They've found out who he is. It seems Street is an alias. He is really Royal Beaudry, the son of the man who used to be sheriff of the county, the one who crippled Jess the day he was killed."
When, within two generations, out of the same exceedingly restricted class of educated Irishmen and women, we count the names of Goldsmith, Samuel Madden, Arthur Murphy, Henry Brooke, Charles Macklin, Sheridan, Burke, Edmund Malone, Maria Edgeworth, Lady Morgan, "Psyche" Tighe, and Thomas Moore, it is impossible not to entertain a very high opinion of the mental resources of that population, if only they were fairly wrought and kindly valued by the world.
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