[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
plodding team that wallowed now through sand to their fetlocks, and again labored upward toward the
brow of a rough, lavastrewn bluff.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
At last they came within sight of a broad, willow-fringed river. Low islands, dense thicketed, clove the
strong, swift current with their sharp points. They might have been great, flat ships forging their silent way
toward the distant mountains of the northland and whence the mighty river tumbled roaring downward for
its thousand-mile journey to the waters of the lesser stream that steals its identity, onward to the sea.
All was greenish-gray or greenish-brown and all was sere and desolate and cold. Here and there little
patches of half-melted snow lay in the shadows of the sage-brush that dotted the rolling flat beside the
river. Beyond, Secor could see a similar landscape upon the other shore.
"It is farther than I thought," he said to his guide.
"That's mostly the way in Idaho," replied the man.
Secor was wondering how they were to cross that mighty torrent, for it was evident that the ranch must
be beyond the river--there were no signs of habitation, no rolling meadow lands, no shady orchards, no
green alfalfa fields within his ken upon the river's hither side. He realized, of course, that the season
precluded a full consummation of his dream, but there would at least be plenty to suggest the beauties of
the Spring and Summer when they should come upon his home.
The guide drew rein upon a little knoll beside the river.
"Wanna get out?" he asked.
"What for?" questioned Secor.
"We're here."
Secor looked at him searchingly. Already the truth was learing at him with a contemptuous grin.
"Is this it?" he asked, nodding his head in a half swing that took in the surrounding desert.
"Yep," said the guide. "'Tain't much good. You ain't got no water."
Secor laughed--a weary, mirthless laugh.
"Oh," he said, "I think it's a pretty good place."
"Whafor?" asked the guide in surprise.
"To take a drink," said Secor, pulling the flask from his overcoat-pocket.
The guide grinned. "An' you don't need no water for that," he said.
"No," replied Secor, "water'd spoil it."
For weeks Secor frequented the Q. P. saloon at Goliath, emerging occasionally to eat and sleep. Every
time he ate he was reminded of the waitress at the Palace Lunch Room, but he didn't go there. He
wondered, when his mind was not entirely befogged by drink, why the girl should cling so tenaciously to
his memory, and what cause there could be for the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied recollection
of her warning--for warning it evidently had been.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
One night Secor was sitting in a stud poker game. The gentleman next to him developed a crouching
manner of inspecting his buried card, placing his eye on a level with the table and barely raising the corner
of his own card. This permitted him to inspect Secor's buried card at the same time. A dozen hands were
dealt before Secor discovered why he always won small pots and lost the large ones. Then he saw that
his worthy opponent not only looked at Secor's buried card, but immediately thereafter passed obvious
signals across the table to a crony upon the other side.
At the following deal Secor did not look at his buried card at all. He merely remained in on the strength
of what he had in sight. From the corner of his eye he saw that the sly one was becoming nervous. Secor
bad an ace and two deuces up--there was still one card to be dealt.
At the betting, Secor raised for the first time, then, purposely, he turned his head away from his cards
and the man at his left to take a drink that stood at his right band. He guessed what would happen. When
the drink was half way to his lips he turned suddenly to the left to discover the sly one in the act of raising
his, Secor's, buried card to learn its identity.
Like a flash Secor wheeled, dashing his glass with its contents full in the face of the cheater. With the
same move he came to his feet. The other whipped a revolver from beneath his coat. The balance of the
players scattered, and the loungers in the saloon ran for the doorway or dived over the bar for the
security its panels seemed to offer.
If Secor had been a foot further away from his antagonist he would doubtless have been killed. As it was
his very proximity saved him. There is no easier weapon to parry at close range than a firearm. The
slightest deviation of aim renders it harmless.
As the gun flashed beneath the electric light, Secor's left arm went up to parry it as if it had been a
clenched right fist aimed at his jaw. The bullet passed harmlessly past him, and with the report of the
exploding cartridge his own right landed heavily upon the point of the cheater's chin.
The man went backward over his chair, his head striking heavily upon a massive pottery spittoon. Then
he lay perfectly still.
Ogden Secor stood with wide eyes gazing at the prostrate form of his antagonist--dazed. The bartender
poked his head above the sheltering breastwork of the bar. Seeing that the shooting appeared to be over
he emerged. His first act was to remove the gun from the nerveless fingers of the supine man. Then he
turned toward Secor.
"Got a gun?" he asked.
Secor shook his head negatively. A moment later the players and the loungers returned to bend over the
quiet form upon the floor. With them came the sheriff and a doctor. The former, after questioning the
bartender, took Secor into custody, as several men carried the injured gambler into a back room.
All night Ogden Secor sat sleepless in his bare cell. He was very sober now, and the depths to which he
had sunk were revealed to him in all their appalling horridness. It was unthinkable, and yet it was
true--he, Ogden Secor, a participant in a drunken, saloon brawl! To-morrow, or as soon as they should
release him, he would seek out the man he had struck and apologize to him, although he knew that the
fellow deserved all that he had got.
He was sorry now that the bullet intended for him had not. found him. It would have been better so, and
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
infinitely easier than to go on living the worthless, besotted life that he was surely headed for.
About eight o'clock in the morning the sheriff entered the corridor outside his cell. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
plodding team that wallowed now through sand to their fetlocks, and again labored upward toward the
brow of a rough, lavastrewn bluff.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
At last they came within sight of a broad, willow-fringed river. Low islands, dense thicketed, clove the
strong, swift current with their sharp points. They might have been great, flat ships forging their silent way
toward the distant mountains of the northland and whence the mighty river tumbled roaring downward for
its thousand-mile journey to the waters of the lesser stream that steals its identity, onward to the sea.
All was greenish-gray or greenish-brown and all was sere and desolate and cold. Here and there little
patches of half-melted snow lay in the shadows of the sage-brush that dotted the rolling flat beside the
river. Beyond, Secor could see a similar landscape upon the other shore.
"It is farther than I thought," he said to his guide.
"That's mostly the way in Idaho," replied the man.
Secor was wondering how they were to cross that mighty torrent, for it was evident that the ranch must
be beyond the river--there were no signs of habitation, no rolling meadow lands, no shady orchards, no
green alfalfa fields within his ken upon the river's hither side. He realized, of course, that the season
precluded a full consummation of his dream, but there would at least be plenty to suggest the beauties of
the Spring and Summer when they should come upon his home.
The guide drew rein upon a little knoll beside the river.
"Wanna get out?" he asked.
"What for?" questioned Secor.
"We're here."
Secor looked at him searchingly. Already the truth was learing at him with a contemptuous grin.
"Is this it?" he asked, nodding his head in a half swing that took in the surrounding desert.
"Yep," said the guide. "'Tain't much good. You ain't got no water."
Secor laughed--a weary, mirthless laugh.
"Oh," he said, "I think it's a pretty good place."
"Whafor?" asked the guide in surprise.
"To take a drink," said Secor, pulling the flask from his overcoat-pocket.
The guide grinned. "An' you don't need no water for that," he said.
"No," replied Secor, "water'd spoil it."
For weeks Secor frequented the Q. P. saloon at Goliath, emerging occasionally to eat and sleep. Every
time he ate he was reminded of the waitress at the Palace Lunch Room, but he didn't go there. He
wondered, when his mind was not entirely befogged by drink, why the girl should cling so tenaciously to
his memory, and what cause there could be for the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied recollection
of her warning--for warning it evidently had been.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
One night Secor was sitting in a stud poker game. The gentleman next to him developed a crouching
manner of inspecting his buried card, placing his eye on a level with the table and barely raising the corner
of his own card. This permitted him to inspect Secor's buried card at the same time. A dozen hands were
dealt before Secor discovered why he always won small pots and lost the large ones. Then he saw that
his worthy opponent not only looked at Secor's buried card, but immediately thereafter passed obvious
signals across the table to a crony upon the other side.
At the following deal Secor did not look at his buried card at all. He merely remained in on the strength
of what he had in sight. From the corner of his eye he saw that the sly one was becoming nervous. Secor
bad an ace and two deuces up--there was still one card to be dealt.
At the betting, Secor raised for the first time, then, purposely, he turned his head away from his cards
and the man at his left to take a drink that stood at his right band. He guessed what would happen. When
the drink was half way to his lips he turned suddenly to the left to discover the sly one in the act of raising
his, Secor's, buried card to learn its identity.
Like a flash Secor wheeled, dashing his glass with its contents full in the face of the cheater. With the
same move he came to his feet. The other whipped a revolver from beneath his coat. The balance of the
players scattered, and the loungers in the saloon ran for the doorway or dived over the bar for the
security its panels seemed to offer.
If Secor had been a foot further away from his antagonist he would doubtless have been killed. As it was
his very proximity saved him. There is no easier weapon to parry at close range than a firearm. The
slightest deviation of aim renders it harmless.
As the gun flashed beneath the electric light, Secor's left arm went up to parry it as if it had been a
clenched right fist aimed at his jaw. The bullet passed harmlessly past him, and with the report of the
exploding cartridge his own right landed heavily upon the point of the cheater's chin.
The man went backward over his chair, his head striking heavily upon a massive pottery spittoon. Then
he lay perfectly still.
Ogden Secor stood with wide eyes gazing at the prostrate form of his antagonist--dazed. The bartender
poked his head above the sheltering breastwork of the bar. Seeing that the shooting appeared to be over
he emerged. His first act was to remove the gun from the nerveless fingers of the supine man. Then he
turned toward Secor.
"Got a gun?" he asked.
Secor shook his head negatively. A moment later the players and the loungers returned to bend over the
quiet form upon the floor. With them came the sheriff and a doctor. The former, after questioning the
bartender, took Secor into custody, as several men carried the injured gambler into a back room.
All night Ogden Secor sat sleepless in his bare cell. He was very sober now, and the depths to which he
had sunk were revealed to him in all their appalling horridness. It was unthinkable, and yet it was
true--he, Ogden Secor, a participant in a drunken, saloon brawl! To-morrow, or as soon as they should
release him, he would seek out the man he had struck and apologize to him, although he knew that the
fellow deserved all that he had got.
He was sorry now that the bullet intended for him had not. found him. It would have been better so, and
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
infinitely easier than to go on living the worthless, besotted life that he was surely headed for.
About eight o'clock in the morning the sheriff entered the corridor outside his cell. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]