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Updated: June 8, 2025
But he was less displeased, being half French, than if he had been pure-bred American. The old man, squatting by his cooking-fire, gave him a civil nod, and he responded with a flourish of his quirt. The reek of sage smoke, the smell of dust and cattle rose rank on the cooling air. To-night, however, he must talk on an empty stomach, for his chuck wagon was not in sight.
Clallam heard his violent words to the squaws for daring to disturb the strangers, and there followed the heavy lashing of a quirt, with screams and lamenting.
He jerked his hat down to his eyebrows and struck Glory with the quirt; but the trail he took was strange to Glory and he felt impelled to stop and argue as only Glory could argue with his master. Minutes passed tumultuously, with nothing accomplished save some weird hoof-prints in the sod.
Roger stood his ground, turning to follow the whirling horse, waiting for the moment when the rider would swing the beast straight at him. "Jump, sucker, jump! or I'll ride you into the ground." Roger jumped as the horse came thundering at him, easily carrying himself out of danger from the animal's hoofs as well as from the heavy quirt which the rider swung at him. "Pretty nimble, eh?
I told him I must have caught it changing climates but however, what you couldn't give us with the books, you handed us with the quirt and here and now I want to say I appreciate it." "All right, I appreciate your appreciation, and I wish to heaven you wouldn't ramble all over the range when you start to say a thing.
If she's been raving around like you say, she's in no shape to be riding these hills alone. She's got to be taken care of." Warfield gave him another sharp scrutiny and rode on. "I always prefer to deal in the open with everyone," he averred. "It may not be my affair, strictly speaking. The Quirt and the Sawtooth aren't very intimate.
They pulled off their hats and ducked their heads to him. Forrest lifted his right hand, the quirt dangling from wrist, the straight forefinger touching the rim of his Baden Powell in semi- military salute. The mare, prancing and whirling again, he held her with a touch of rein and threat of spur, and gazed after the four-footed silk that filled the road with shimmering white.
Her hair, loosened by her ride, spread low upon her head. She stood in her saddle habit, with her quirt still in hand. "Any affair that may lead my cousin into shooting is my affair. I make it mine. This is my father's roof. I neither know nor care anything about what led to this quarrel, but the quarrel is mine now.
"There's a draft of air from the blow-holes that comes this way. Sound comes outa there a lot easier than it goes in. Sis and I found that out. Lead your horse if they jump us, give him a lick with the quirt and hide in the brush." Like Indians the two made their way down a rambling slope not far from where Marian had guided Bud.
Up on the ridge nearest the house Al Woodruff shifted his position so that he could watch her go. He had been watching Lone and Swan and the dog, trailing certain tracks through the sagebrush down below, and when Lorraine rode away from the Quirt they were in the wagon road, fussing around the place where Frank had been found. "They can't pin nothing on me," Al tried to comfort himself.
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