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Updated: June 16, 2025
It cannot be said for Weighborne that he proved a docile patient. He had all the energetic man's aversion to inactive days in bed, and he greatly preferred, if he must submit to such an exigency, that it be in his own bed and among more plentiful conveniences, than could be afforded here.
The Kentuckian had suggested, however, that before committing themselves in the matter they send one of their own number with him to look over the options. None of the others, as it happened, could go. Here, declared the doctor, was my opportunity to try the novelty of useful occupation. The man, whose name was Weighborne, was to lunch with him.
Weighborne saw that a withdrawal from debate would be advisable, but that this withdrawal must not seem precipitate. "However, as a matter of argument," he suggested, "is any man competent to decide that his enemy needs killing?" The judge went into his trousers-pocket and produced a twist of tobacco into which he bit generously before replying.
At the last word her face clouded with an expression of absolute bewilderment, and her eyes widened as she gazed at me. "My my what?" she demanded. "Your husband," I repeated. "Mr. Weighborne." She contemplated me as though I were a new and rather interesting variety of maniac, then her laugh was long and delicious.
Weighborne studied me for a moment in some perplexity. He knew I was lying, but he had no suspicion why I lied and he could hardly argue in her defense with me, a stranger. He changed the topic, but there was a hurt expression in his face as though he were unable to understand my subtle hostility, as he construed it, for a person entirely lovely.
It's a prettier name than Fanny Maxwell, and looks better on a check. I was number three, that's all." "Mrs. Who?" I repeated, in astonishment. "You don't mean the wife of W. C. Weighborne?" "Why?" he asked suddenly. "Is the gentleman an acquaintance of yours?" "Since this morning, yes. He is even a business associate."
Keller had told me who she had been before she married Weighborne, the man whose name, in the words of my fellow unfortunate, Bobby Maxwell, "looked well on a check." Weighborne was at the station on the following morning when, five minutes before train time, I arrived.
It needed little penetration to discover that the geniality was shallow and temporary, like that between the outposts of hostile armies lying close-camped, across an interval soon to be closed in battle. "You made a very unfortunate mistake in stopping here," said Marcus to Weighborne, in a low voice. He nodded to two mountaineers who rode on the far side of the cavalcade.
He has of late rather pursued the policy of holding ostensibly aloof, and he might have inferred that you would repeat the circumstances to me." Marcus rose and paced the cabin floor for a few turns, then came back and took his seat once more in the circle about the fire. "You mean," suggested Weighborne, "that the implication of Dawson was coming too close to identifying the master hand?"
"He summonses me to answer in his own court, for meeting with hostility the attack of his own assassins. I'll be there but I hope to give him a surprise." Weighborne had some temperature and was often restless on his mattress of corn shucks, though his amiability held steady. One evening several days after our ambuscade, I was sitting alone and morose before the open hearth while he slept.
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