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Updated: June 21, 2025
Constantly dashing off on his part to investigate gulches and side trails caused Wallie's smouldering wrath to burn brighter, as the buckskin hourly grew more jaded. Complaints increased that their horses were hard-gaited, and the voices of the ladies held plaintive notes as they declared their intention of riding in the surrey when they overtook it.
His pneumatic mattress had collapsed from punctures, and Wallie's bones were uncomfortably close to the boards in the bottom of the bunk McGonnigle had built against one end of the cabin. His pillow was a flour sack filled with straw and of a doubtful colour, as was also the hand towel hanging on a nail beside a shocking wash basin.
In the face above him, almost brutal in the fury that stamped it, there was no trace to remind Stott of the youth who had painted cabbage roses and knit sweaters. "Let me up!" he cried, finally, struggling under the merciless blows that rained upon him. "Say it!" Wallie's voice was implacable. "'Nough!" Stott whined it.
Wallie's coming gave him an excuse to call up McDowell. He confessed to a disquieting desire to hear the inspector's voice again. In the back of his head was the fear of Shan Tung, and the hope that McDowell might throw some light on Miriam Kirkstone's unusual request to see her that night.
What the atlas omitted, however, was supplied by Wallie's imagination. When he closed his eyes he could see great herds of cattle his with their broad backs glistening in the sunshine, and vast tracts his also planted in clover, oats, barley, or whatever it was they grew in the country.
Wallie returned evenly: "You know as well as I do that choosing a camp is left to Hicks' judgment. I told you not to get ahead of the supply-wagon." "If you think I'm going to poke along behind like a snail, you're mistaken!" Stott retorted. Wallie's face went white under its tan, though his voice was quiet enough as he answered: "You'll 'poke' this afternoon, I'm thinking." Stott turned sharply.
"Thumb him," said Miss Spenceley, "and we'll soon settle the argument." "How thumb him? The term is not familiar." "Show him, Pinkey." Her eyes were sparkling, for Wallie's tone implied that the expression was slang and also rather vulgar. "He'll unload his pack as shore as shootin'." Pinkey hesitated. "No time like the present to learn a lesson," she replied, ambiguously.
The vast tract they were traversing belonged to Canby, so Pinkey informed him, and as mile after mile slipped by he was amazed at the extent of it. Through illegal fencing, leasing, and driving small stockmen from the country by various methods, Canby had obtained control of a range of astonishing circumference, and Wallie's homestead was nearly in the middle of it.
It had required all Wallie's will power, when he had arrived at midnight, to rise above the depression superinduced by these surroundings. His luggage was piled high in the corner, while the two trunks setting outside his doorway already had been the cause of threats of an alarming nature, made against the owner by sundry guests who had bruised their shins on them in the ill-lighted corridor.
"If you use a little bit of sense, you can have it too." "I don't want "Pooh! That's what you think now. Wallie's a nice person. Lots of girls are mad about him. And he has about all the money there is." Getting no response from Elizabeth, she went on: "I was thinking it over last night. You'll have to marry sometime, and it isn't as though Wallie was dissipated, or anything like that.
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