Didn't the family know? Oh, yes, Bob was
himself a fine fellow; but he was Whiskey Weston!
"Of course, no good woman wants to be Mrs. Whiskey Weston," said my
friend grimly. "Still, I think she did care a bit for me; but it was
all up. Back I came, and here I am, Mark, just kind of stopping to
stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe. I came on a wheel, for
I had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself
the way it used to be."
Then he smoked.
"Is that the dogs again?" I said, to break the oppressive silence.
Weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the
clump of oaks.
"Do you know sometimes I think that Mary there, with all her bringing
up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons
and gambling places and all that." Weston spoke carelessly, puffing at
his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor. "I think a world of
Mary, Mark. She is beautiful, and good, and honest. Sometimes I
suspect that I've stayed here just for her.
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