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Updated: May 13, 2025
Pierre studied his own long, brown hands, turning the soft hat between them. When he lifted his eyes, they were intensely blue. It was as though blue fire had consumed the smoke. "I've been takin' after a girl. She was called Jane on Yarnall's ranch an' she was cook there for the outfit. Nobody knowed her story nor her name. She left the mornin' I came in an' I didn't set eyes on her.
Yarnall's guest looked at him without speaking, and Yarnall nervously went on, "She's been with us about six months, Landis, and I don't know anything about her. She was tall, gray eyes, black hair, slow speaking, and with the kind of voice you'd be apt to notice ... yes, I see she's the girl you've been looking for.
On the fourth day, an amiable young lady, Miss Charlton, living near the prison, had heard of poor Yarnall's fate that morning. Soon therefore as she saw Mrs. Yarnall and her daughter coming along as usual, with their little present to their husband and father, she burst into tears. Mrs. Yarnall alighted at the door of the jail, and begged to see her husband.
It was after breakfast, two or three mornings later, when a stranger on a chestnut pony rode into Yarnall's ranch, tied his pony to a tree, and, striding across the cobbled square, came to knock at the office door.
But poor Peter Yarnall's case seems still more deplorable. This hard fated man, a simple, inoffensive quaker, lived near Camden. Having urgent business with a man, who, as he understood, was with general Sumter, on the opposite side of the Catawba, he went over to him. The man happened, at that moment, to be keeping guard over some tory prisoners.
Don't let her make you change your plans." The doctor had seen his patient's convulsive jerk. "Pack her up. Make your reservations and go straight to 'Buck' Yarnall's ranch, Lazy-Y, that's his brand, I believe, Middle Fork, Wyoming. I'll send him a wire. He knows me. She needs all outdoors to run about in.
She called herself "Jane" and her ferocity was the armor for her beauty. Always she worked in fear of Pierre's arrival, and, as soon as she had saved money enough for further traveling, she moved on. She worked by preference on lonely ranches as cook or harvester, and it was after two years of such life that she had drifted into Yarnall's kitchen.
The woman was startled, color rose into her face. She stared at him. "I'm not dancing, Mr. Morena," she answered. "You know my name," smiled Morena; "and I don't know yours. I've been on Mr. Yarnall's ranch for a month. Why haven't I seen you?" "Fer not lookin', I suppose."
I know a ranch in Wyoming Yarnall's. She'll get outdoor exercise, tonic air, sound sleep, release from all these pestiferous details, like a cloud of flies, that sting women's nerves to death. Don't pay any attention to whether she likes it or not. Let her behave like a naughty child, let her kick and scream and cry. Pick her up, Morena, and carry her off. Do you hear?
The Jew waited, patient, pliant, smiling, and then enumerated his reasons. He talked to Yarnall for an hour, at the end of which time, Yarnall, his eyes still twinkling, sent for Jane. The two men sat in a log-walled room, known as the office. Yarnall's big desk crowded a stove. There was no other furniture except shelves and a box seat beneath a window.
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