Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 16, 2025
Tresler was bleeding from nose and ears when he mounted again. The saddle was cinched up very tight, and the mare herself was so blown that she was unable to distend herself to resist the pressure. But, nevertheless, she fought as though a devil possessed her, and, exhausted, and without the help of the blanket strap, he was thrown again and again.
Marbolt," he could not help saying, "but after what I heard last night, I cannot believe he is not in league with these people." It was an unfortunate remark, and brought the biting answer that might have been expected. "I plead for no man, Tresler. Most certainly not for a Breed. I show you where you are wrong. Your inexperience is lamentable, but you cannot help it."
Then a slight pause followed which amounted almost to awkwardness. The girl had come to find him. Her visit was not a matter of chance. She wanted to talk to this man from the East. And, somehow, Tresler understood that this was so. For some moments she sat stroking Bessie's shoulder with her rawhide riding-switch. The mare grew restive.
"Gener'ly fer one of two reasons. Guess it's drink or wimmin." Again he shot a speculating glance at his friend, and, as Tresler displayed more interest in the distant view than in his remarks, he went on. "I ain't heerd tell as you wus death on the bottle." The object of his solicitude smiled round on him. "Perhaps you think me a fool.
It is probable that Jake, at that moment, had no fear of either man or devil. And, though Tresler could not distinguish a word, his talk was braggart, domineering, and there was a strong flavor of drink in its composition. But even so, there was a relentless purpose in it, too. "Ther' ain't no option fer you, Marbolt," Jake was saying.
And he gazed at her with so much intentness that Tresler felt he must call attention to it. "She is a beauty," he suggested. And Fyles answered with a sharp question. "Is she yours?" "No. Only to use." "Belongs to the ranch?" "Jake told me she is a mare the blind man bought from a half-breed outfit passing through the country.
And the little man moved off with a thoughtful smile on his rutted, mahogany features. Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for "draw." And what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker an artist.
"Tresler, did you say?" asked a girl's voice from the kitchen doorway. "Wounded?" There was a world of fear in the questions, which were scarcely above a whisper. Arizona was lifting Tresler down into Joe's arms. "I 'lows I didn't know you wus ther', missie," he replied, without turning from his task. "Careful, Joe; easy easy now. He's dreadful sick, I guess. Yes, missie, it's him.
An' the hay-mower wus to be got ready fer hayin'. She mostly drove that herself, an' I 'lows I wus glad." Arizona paused and took a fresh chew. Then he went on. "Guess you ain't never got hitched?" Tresler denied the impeachment. "Not yet," he said. "Hah! Guess it makes a heap o' diff'rence." "Yes, I suppose so. Sobers a fellow. Makes him feel like settling down." "Wal, maybe."
"Might I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing? My name is John Tresler; I am on my way to Mosquito Bend, Julian Marbolt's ranch. A stranger, you see, in a strange land. No doubt you have observed that already," he finished up good-naturedly. But the other's attention was not to be diverted from the interesting spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking