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Updated: June 21, 2025
To this, Dyke had been brought, Dyke, than whom no man had been more honest, more courageous, more jovial. This was the end of him, a prison; this was his final estate, a criminal. Presley found an excuse for riding on, leaving S. Behrman behind him. He did not stop at Caraher's saloon, for the heat of his rage had long since begun to cool, and dispassionately, he saw things in their true light.
"He was at Caraher's. I only saw his back. He was drinking at a table and his back was towards me. But the man looked broken absolutely crushed. It is terrible, terrible." "He was at Caraher's, was he?" demanded Annixter. "Yes." "Drinking, hey?" "I think so. Yes, I saw a bottle." "Drinking at Caraher's," exclaimed Annixter, rancorously; "I can see HIS finish." There was a silence.
Around Caraher's was a veritable throng. Saddle horses and buggies by the score were clustered underneath the shed or hitched to the railings in front of the watering trough. Three of Broderson's Portuguese tenants and a couple of workmen from the railroad shops in Bonneville were on the porch, already very drunk.
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