Somehow this was incredible, unthinkable,
nothing short. The old cattle-man who had been the hero of his
boyhood, who had taught him to shoot and ride and swim, who had been so
vital and so quick and keen of eye--blind?
"What happened to him?" asked Packard presently.
"Suppose you ask him," she retorted. "If you know him so well. He is
still with the outfit. A man named Blenham is the foreman now. He's
old Packard's right-hand bower, you know."
"But Phil Packard is dead. And----"
"And old 'Hell-Fire' Packard, Phil Packard's father, never will die.
He's just naturally too low-down mean; the devil himself wouldn't have
him."
"Terry!" came the voice of the untidy man, meant to be remonstrative
but chiefly noteworthy for a newly acquired thickness of utterance.
Terry's eyes sparkled and a hot flush came into her cheeks.
"Leave me alone, will you, pa?" she cried sharply. "I don't owe old
Packard anything; no, nor Blenham either. You can walk easy all you
like, but I'm blamed if I've got to. If you'd smash your cursed old
bottle on their heads and take a brace we'd come alive yet."
"Remember we have a guest with us," grumbled Temple from his place by
the sitting-room fire.
"Oh, shoot!" exclaimed the girl impatiently. Reaching out for a second
sandwich she stabbed the kitchen-knife viciously into the roast. "I've
a notion to pack up and clear out and let the cut-throat crowd clean
you to the last copper and pick your bones into the bargain.
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