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Vachell, Horace Annesley, 1861-1955

"Bunch Grass A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch"

I forgot them all, confronted by those
malicious, sneering eyes, by the derisive, snarling grin.
"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."
"What d'you say?"
"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."
For my life I could not determine whether the news moved him or not.
"Wal?"
"And she's asking for you."
"Askin'--fer me?"
At last I had gripped his attention and interest.
"Why?"
"She wants to give you her money."
"Then it wa'n't a plant? 'Twa'n't fixed up atween you boys an' her?"
"It was her own idea--an idea so strong that it has taken possession
of her poor wandering wits altogether."
"Is that so?" He moistened his lips. "And you--ye've come up here to
ask me to go down there, into that p'isonous Paradise, because a
little girl who ain't nothin' to me wants to give me three dollars and
a half?"
"If you get there in time it may save her life."
"An' s'pose I lose mine--hey?"
I shrugged my shoulders. He stared at me as if I were a strange
animal, clicking his teeth and twisting his fingers.
"Look ye here," he burst out, angrily, with a curious note of surprise
and petulance in his voice, "you an' that brother o' yours know me,
old Pap Spooner, purty doggoned well.


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