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Updated: June 3, 2025
Jacobs had been kind to Rosie, whose bare, loveless life knew few kindnesses, and she harbored the memory of a good deed as her grandfather harbored his hatred. Moreover, the Wyker joint had played havoc with the Gimpke family. Her father had died from a fall received in a drunken brawl there. Two brothers, too drunk to know better, had driven into Little Wolf in a spring flood and been drowned.
He run me off my saloon in ol' Carey Crossin'; my prewery goin' smash mit der damned prohibittery law; he growin' rich in Careyville, an' me!" His voice rose to a shriek and he stamped his foot in rage. "Hold your noise, Wyker!" Champers growled. "Don't you know who's on the other side of that partition?" "I built that partition mineself. It's von dead noise-breaker," Wyker began.
For myself, I have business with only one of the three, Wyker. He doesn't like my sheep, evidently, because he knows I keep track of his whisky selling in this town and keep the law forever hanging over him. But I've sworn under high heaven to fight that curse to humanity wherever I find it threatening, and under high heaven I'll do it, too."
"So he taunts me with being a coward and a brute, a thief and a cut-throat; dares to strike me in the face when I've given him a living so long he's forgotten who did it. I'm done with him. But he don't dare to say a word." He shut his lips tightly and slowly clinched his hands. "For wy you stare so at dat door yet? Where's Champers?" Hans Wyker demanded as he came in.
Thaine had his hat stuck on like a Dutchman's and he puffed himself out and made up a regular Wyker face as he jogged along. And Rosie plumped herself down on that capering colt as though she shifted all responsibility for accidents upon it. The more it pranced about, the firmer she sat and the less concerned she was.
The town founders ruled Hans Wyker out of a membership among them. Moreover, they declared their intentions of forever beating back all efforts at saloon building within the corporation's limits, making Wykerton their sworn enemy for all time.
Hans Wyker had managed skillfully when he pulled the prospective county seat of Wolf county up Big Wolf Creek to Wykerton, a town he hoped to build after his own ideals. And his ideals had only one symbol, namely, the dollar sign. Hans had congratulated himself not a little over his success. "I done it all mineself," he was wont to boast.
In the dusk of the evening he drove up to Darley Champers' office in Wykerton. As he was hitching his team Rosie Gimpke rushed out of the side street and lunged across to the hitching post. "Oh, Doctor Carey, coom queek mit me," she exclaimed in a whisper. "Coom, I just got here from Mis' Aydelot's. They mak' me coom home to work at the Wyker House, ant a man get hurt bad in there.
The vivid shafts of lightning and the blackness that followed them made the scene terrific with Nature's majestic madness. "I must get shelter somewhere," Jacobs said. "I am sorry Champers failed me. I wanted his counsel before I slipped up on Wyker tonight. I thought I heard him coming just now. Maybe he's waiting for me under cover. I'll go down and see."
The way took them to the alley behind the Wyker House, through a rear gate to the back door of the kitchen, from which it was a short step to the little "blind tiger" beyond the dining room. Sounds of boisterous talking and laughter and a general shuffling of dishes told that the evening meal was beginning.
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