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Updated: May 31, 2025
The judge dropped his book and stared across the table at the girl. "Gone! When?" "Ten minutes five half an hour I don't know. Before the storm commenced." "Oh!" The old gentleman appeared to be reassured. "Probably he had work to do and wanted to get in before the rain." But Lige Willetts was turning pale. He swallowed several times with difficulty. "Which way did he go?
The tracks of the Indian girl's pony were plain in the sand. Also there were other tracks, not so plain, and these Shefford decided had been made by Willetts and the girl the day before. He climbed a ridge, half soft sand and half hard, and saw right before him, rising in striking form, two great yellow buttes, like elephant legs. He rode between them, amazed at their height.
On one side of him were the two Bowlders, on the other was Lige Willetts, Mr. Watts preserving peace between the two young men with perfect tact and sang-froid.
The men lying on their guns in the ambuscade along the fence heard the dirge rise and grow to its mighty fulness, and they shivered. One of them, posted nearest the advance, had his rifle carefully levelled at Lige Willetts, a fair target in the road. When he heard the singing, he turned to the man next behind him and laughed harshly: "I reckon we'll see a big jamboree in hell to-night, huh?"
There were smaller stains above and below; none beyond it to left or right; and there were deep boot-prints in the sand. Men were examining the place excitedly, talking and gesticulating. It was Lige Willetts who had found it. His horse was tethered to a fence near by, at the end of a lane through a cornfield. Jared Wiley, the deputy, was talking to a group near the stain, explaining.
But I'll not have Willetts or any other damned hypocrite run down my friend here. John Shefford is the finest young man that ever came to me in the desert. And he's got to be put right before you all or I'll not set foot in Stonebridge again.... Willetts was after Glen Naspa. Shefford punched him. And later threw him out of the old Indian's hogan up on the mountain.
When Shefford recognized Willetts an embarrassment as well as an instinct made him halt and step into a bushy, low-branched cedar. It was not his intention to spy on them. He merely wanted to avoid a meeting. But the missionary's hand on the girl's arm, and her up-lifted head, her pretty face, strange, intent, troubled, struck Shefford with an unusual and irresistible curiosity.
Martin some time afterward. Mr. Lige Willetts, riding idly by, drew rein in front of the lighted windows, and listened with the others. Presently he leaned from his horse and whispered to a man near him: "I know that song." "Do you?" whispered the other. "Yes; he and I heard her sing it, the night he was shot." "So!" "Yes, sir. It's by Beethoven." "Is it?" "It's a seraphic song," continued Lige.
Skinny continued to stare at him, still with a kind of lingering misgiving, but feeling that gentle patting on his shoulder, he seemed reassured. "I was just flopping around in the woods, Skinny; just flopping around, that's all...." And that was the triumph of Hervey Willetts, who would let nothing stand in his way. "Nothing!"
"But I need, I need, I need, I need a friend," Hervey said. "You seem to have lots of friends down there," Tom said. "A scout is observant, hey?" Willetts laughed. "I mean you always seem to have a lot of fellows with you," Tom said, ignoring the compliment. "Everybody likes your troop, that's sure. And your troop seems to be stuck on you." "Good night!" Hervey laughed.
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