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Updated: May 31, 2025
No blood was shed, however, and indeed there was none shed by any of our party during the entire journey. Soon after we had left the Missouri River we came to a small bridge over a washout across the road, evidently constructed by some train just ahead of us. The Indians had taken possession and were demanding pay for crossing.
By the time we were done eating, the gray light of a bedraggled morning revealed tiny lakes in every hollow, and each coulée and washout was a miniature torrent of muddy water with a promise of more to come in the murky cloud-drift that overcast the sky.
"Washout?" said I. "Where?" "At the dry bridge beyond." Well, to make a long story short, we took her on the engine she was wet through and went on to the dry bridge. This was a little wooden structure in a sag, about a mile away, and we found that the storm we had encountered farther back had done bad work at each end of the bridge.
She did not know it was moated like a castle, with a washout ten feet deep and twice that in width, and that what looked to her quite easy was utterly impossible. Keith gained, every leap. In a moment he was close behind. "Take your foot out of the stirrup," he commanded, harshly, and though Beatrice wondered why, something in his voice made her obey.
"And sixty ounces if there's a pennyweight," added the Padre exultantly. "You see I I fell over it," he explained, his quiet eyes twinkling. Two hours later saw an extraordinary change at the foot of Devil's Hill. The wonder of the "washout" had passed. Its awe was no longer upon the human mind.
A branch railroad linked the place more or less precariously with civilization, and every day unless there was a washout somewhere, or a snowslide, or drifts too deep a train passed over the road. One day it would go up-stream, and the next day it would come back. And the houses stood drawn up in a row alongside the track to watch for these passings.
It goes without saying that I did not arrive in Nikko without a variety of experiences along the way. Two hours out from Yokohama, the train boy came into the coach, and with a smile as cheerful as if he were saying, "Happy New Year," announced that there was a washout in front of us and a landslide at the back of us.
No whistling this time of rag-time tunes with queer little variations of her own; no twirling of the quirt; instead Pard got the feel of it in a tender part of the flank, and went clean over a narrow washout that could have been avoided quite easily. No groping for rhythmic phrasings to fit the beauty of the land she lived in; Jean was in the mood to combat anything that came in her way.
The moon was up, wallowing through a bank of clouds that made weird shadows on the plain, sweeping across greasewood and sage and barren sand like great, ungainly troops of horsemen; filling the arroyos and the little, deep washes with inky blackness. Up from one deep washout a close-gathered troop of shadows came thrusting forward toward the lighter slope beyond.
"I do refuse to fight you, but do not refuse to give you satisfaction for what wrong you have suffered. Take my life, if you choose; it is yours. Take it, or forever after this consider our debt of hatred canceled, and let us be " "Friends? Never, Justin McKenzie, never! You forget the stain dyed by your hand that will never washout!" "No! no!
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