"Jack, get into your room and don't move out of it till I tell you to.
D'you hear?"
She turned on her heel like a soldier and marched from the room.
"Jack."
She stopped in the door but would not turn back. "Jack, don't you
love your old dad anymore?" She whirled and ran to him with
outstretched arms and clung to him, sobbing. "Oh, dad," she groaned.
"You've broken my heart."
CHAPTER 12
The annals of the mountain-desert have never been written and can
never be written. They are merely a vast mass of fact and tradition
and imagining which floats from tongue to tongue from the Rockies to
the Sierra Nevadas. A man may be a fact all his life and die only a
local celebrity. Then again, he may strike sparks from that
imagination which runs riot by camp-fires and at the bars of the
crossroads saloons.
In that case he becomes immortal. It is not that lies are told about
him or impossible feats ascribed to him, but every detail about him is
seized upon and passed on with a most scrupulous and loving care.
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