Some one had
ridden up to the veranda at a great pace. Who? And what could the
urgency be at such an hour?
She heard Jeff moving in the living-room. She heard him pass out on to
the veranda. Then curiosity, perhaps apprehension, urged her. She
passed to the window beyond her bureau, which was near the angle of the
building, and leaned out of it. Ordinary tones on the veranda would
reach her there.
She waited, breathing lightly lest her hearing should be impaired. A
strange voice was talking. She could not place it. It was rough, and
the language was rough. No doubt it was one of the "hands" from some
outlying point.
"They got him through the chest, an' I guess he's goin' to pass in. He
sez to me, 'Ride like hell an' fetch the boss. Tell him I got 'em
plumb wher' he wants 'em. I located their lay-out. I ain't got above
an hour or so to tell him in. Just hike an' ride like ----!'"
Then came Jeff's voice cold and undisturbed.
"Where is he?"
"Why, by his shack at Spruce Crossing. He jest got in, an' nigh fell
plumb in his tracks out o' the saddle.
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