Good Indian smoked
another cigarette while he watched it. When a certain great
bowlder that was like a miniature ledge glowed rosily and then
slowly darkened to a chill gray, he threw his cigarette stub
unerringly at a lily-pad which had courtesied many a time before
to a like missile from his hand, pulled his hat down over his
eyes, jumped off the porch, and started around the house to the
gate which led to the stable.
Phoebe came out from the sitting-room, ran down the steps, and
barred his way.
"Grant!" she said, and there were tears in her eyes, "don't do
anything rash--don't. If it's for our sakes--and I know it
is--don't do it. They'll go, anyway. We'll have the law on them
and make them go. But don't YOU go down there. You let Thomas
handle that part. You're like one of my own boys. I can't let
you go!"
He looked down at her commiseratingly. "I've got to go, Mother
Hart. I've made my war-talk." He hesitated, bent his head, and
kissed her on the forehead as she stood looking up at him, and
went on.
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