"Something's happened to me to-day. It won't change me.
I've gone too far for that. But some morning when you read in the
papers that Wolf Leroy died with his boots on and everybody in
sight registers his opinion of the deceased you'll remember one
thing. He wasn't a wolf to you--not at the last."
"I'll not forget," she said, and the quick tears were in her
eyes.
York Neil came toward them from the house. It was plain from his
manner he had a joke up his sleeve.
"You're wanted, Phil," he announced.
"Wanted where?"
"You got a visitor in there," Neil said, with a grin and a jerk
of his thumb toward the house. "Came blundering into the draw
sorter accidental-like, but some curious. So I asked him if he
wouldn't light and stay a while. He thought it over, and figured
he would."
"Who is it?" asked Leroy.
"You go and see. I ain't giving away what your Christmas presents
are. I aim to let Santa surprise you a few.
Miss Mackenzie followed the outlaw chief into the house, and over
his shoulder glimpsed two men. One of them was the Irishman, Cork
Reilly, and he sat with a Winchester across his knees.
Pages:
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310