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Updated: May 3, 2025
Old men with the flat tone of coming senility in their voices will suck at their pipes and cackle reminiscently while they tell you of Casey's tumultuous youth when he drove the six fastest horses in Colorado on the stage out from Cripple Creek, and whooped past would-be holdups with a grin of derision on his face and bullets whining after him and passengers praying disjointed prayers and clinging white-knuckled to the seats.
You will believe me and forgive me; and promise me that you will go quietly away." When she finished Mrs. Gregg was white-faced and luckily too frightened to weep. Henry Gregg started up in the carriage, his fists white-knuckled, his lean face turned toward the carriage crawling behind. "Sit down!" commanded Mary Gowd. She jerked his sleeve. "Sit down!" Henry Gregg sat down slowly.
"You'll have a corpse on your hands in an hour," Feldman insisted. "I know space-stomach, damn it." The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. "Go treat yourself if you wanta play doctor. Go on, scram before I toss you out in the snow!" One of Feldman's white-knuckled hands reached for the attendant. Then he caught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally faced the kid again.
He lay with blazing eyes, watching her for a moment, too moved to speak. At last he propped himself on one elbow, shook a small, white-knuckled fist under the nose of Mary, and cried: "Then what would he do with you?" He went on: "Would he wear you around his neck like a watch charm?"
They did not smile at each other. Sheila spoke sharply, each word a little soft lash. "I want to speak to you. Will you come to my sitting-room when I get back?" "Yes'm," said Dickie. It was the tone of an unwincing pride. Under the desk, hidden from sight, his hand was a white-knuckled fist. Sheila passed on, trailed by Hudson, who was smiling not agreeably to himself.
There were some who would never walk, would never stand upright again, who had nothing before them but the grim life of a helpless cripple. There were others who could hardly hope to see the morrow's sun rise, and others again grey-faced with pain and with white-knuckled hands clenched to the stretcher-edges.
His right hand, white-knuckled, gripped the butt of his pistol, while under his left the brass rail of the bed slowly bent under the intensity of his unconscious muscular effort. Crane stood still, apparently impassive, but with his face perfectly white and with every feature stern and cold as though cut from marble. Seaton was the first to speak.
"What would I do with him?" cried the girl. "Love him!" It seemed as though her words, like whips, lashed the boy back to his murderous anger. He lay with blazing eyes, watching her for a moment, too moved to speak. At last he propped himself on one elbow, shook a small, white-knuckled fist under the nose of Mary, and cried: "Then what would he do with you?"
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