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Updated: August 1, 2024
Tom Quentan no longer guided the plunging, reeling broncos on their swift and perilous way he had sturdily declined to "play second fiddle to a kerosene tank." Lee began to wonder if she should find the Fork much changed her mother was a bad correspondent. Her unspoken question, opportunely asked by another, was answered by Mrs. McBride. "Oh, Lord, yes!
It was driven, also, by a small, lean young fellow, whom the cowboys on her father's ranch would have called a "lunger," so thin and small were his hands and arms. He was quite as far from old Tom Quentan as the car was from the coach on which he used to perch. "Yes," she replied, curtly, "I am." Something in her tone discouraged him from further inquiry, and he soon dropped away.
She recalled, vividly, the stagecoach which used to amble sedately, not to say wheezily, from the railway to the Fork and from the Fork back to the railway, in the days when she had ridden away in it a tearful, despairing, long-limbed girl, and fully expected to find it waiting for her at Sulphur City, with old Tom Quentan still as its driver.
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