Patterson," continued Poindexter, stepping from his buggy,
"you never spoke a truer word in your life. One moment, Mrs. Tucker. Let
me send you back in the buggy. Don't mind ME. I can get a fresh horse of
the sheriff. I'm quite at home here. I say, Patterson, step a few paces
this way, will you? A little further from your wife, please. That'll
do. You've got a claim of five thousand dollars against the property,
haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, that woman just driving away is your one solitary chance of
getting a cent of it. If your wife insults her again, that chance is
gone. And if YOU do--"
"Well?"
"As sure as there is a God in Israel and a Supreme Court of the State of
California, I'll kill you in your tracks! . . . Stay!"
Patterson turned. The irrepressible look of humorous tolerance of all
human frailty had suffused Poindexter's black eyes with mischievous
moisture. "If you think it quite safe to confide to your wife this
prospect of her improvement by widowhood, you may!"
CHAPTER III
Mr.
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