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Updated: June 14, 2025
If she's been raving around like you say, she's in no shape to be riding these hills alone. She's got to be taken care of." Warfield gave him another sharp scrutiny and rode on. "I always prefer to deal in the open with everyone," he averred. "It may not be my affair, strictly speaking. The Quirt and the Sawtooth aren't very intimate.
Major Ira Warfield, the lonely proprietor of the Hall, was a veteran officer, who, in disgust at what he supposed to be ill-requited services, had retired from public life to spend the evening of his vigorous age on this his patrimonial estate. Here he lived in seclusion, with his old-fashioned housekeeper, Mrs. Condiment, and his old family servants and his favorite dogs and horses.
But it would take a stronger man than the country held to raise the question of Fred Thurman's death and take even the first steps toward proving it a murder. "It ain't that they can do anything, Mr. Warfield," the man from Whisper said guardedly, urging his horse close to the machine that stood in the trail from Echo.
But to offset that, Lone's reason told him that Warfield had probably not known that Frank was dead. That had been news to him or had it? He tried to remember whether Warfield had mentioned it first and could not. Too many disturbing emotions had held him lately; Lone was beginning to feel the need of a long, quiet pondering over his problems.
"Perhaps, of me no more a thought Lingers within thy bosom blest: For time and absence both are fraught With danger to the lover's rest? O Lilian! if thy gentlest breath Should whisper that sad truth to me, My heart would soon be cold in death Though dying, still 'twould think of thee!" "Edward Warfield, The Indian Hunter."
The post-mark, "Van Buren, Arkansas," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were en route for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: "To Edward Warfield;" and so to the apostrophic commencement: "Stranger!"
At first it had been fighting fury that had impelled her to hurry; now it was fear that drove her homeward where Lone was, and Swan, and that stolid, faithful Jim. She felt that Senator Warfield would never dare to carry out his covert threat, once she reached home. Nevertheless, the threat haunted her, made her glance often over her shoulder.
Here his mornings were usually spent in the chase, in which he excelled, and his afternoons and evenings were occupied in small convivial suppers among his few chosen companions of the chase or the bottle. In person Major Warfield was tall and strongly built, reminding one of some old iron-limbed Douglas of the olden time.
I figured if her dad got killed, she'd leave. "And let me tell you, folks, Warfield raised hell with me because Brit Hunter wasn't killed when he pitched over the grade. He held out on me for that job so I'm collecting five hundred dollars' worth of fun right now.
Senator Warfield himself represented the modern type of range man and was proud of his progressiveness. Never a scheme for the country's development was hatched but you would find Senator Warfield closely allied with it, his voice the deciding one when policies and progress were being discussed.
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