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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Anse, did ary Trantham see you a-gittin' here tonight?" "Nobody that knowed me seed me." "Old Wyatt Trantham, he rid into Manchester this evenin' 'bout fo' o'clock I seed him passin' over the ridge," went on Shem. "He'll be ridin' back 'long Pigeon Roost some time before mawnin'. He done you a heap o' dirt, Anse." The prostrate man was listening hard.
When he was gone from sight the nephew of the dead Trantham rolled out of his hiding place and fled up the road, holding one hand to his wounded cheek and whimpering.
A dumb, unuttered love for the two shock-headed babies he had left behind in the split-board cabin was the one big thing in Anse Dugmore's whole being bigger even than his sense of allegiance to the feud. "My young uns, Shem?" "Wyatt Trantham took 'em and he kep' 'em he's got 'em both now." "Does he does he use 'em kindly?" "I ain't never heered," said Shem simply.
Then he heard him coming. Up the trail sounded the muffled music of a pacer's hoofs single-footing through the snow, and after that, almost instantly Trantham rode out into sight and loomed larger and larger as he drew steadily near the open place under the bank. He was wavering in the saddle.
It was probable that he had no part in the latest murdering; perhaps doubtful that he had any prior knowledge of the plot. But by his name and his blood-tie he was a Trantham, which was enough. A writer of the Western school would have found little in this encounter that was really worth while to write about.
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