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Brand, Max, 1892-1944

"Trailin'!"


That is to say, if Sally would consent to become interested. To the
silent persuasion of money, however, Nash trusted many things.
The roan jogged sullenly ahead, giving all the strength of his gallant,
ugly body to the work; the piebald mustang pranced like a dancing master
beside and behind with a continual jingling of the tossed bridle.
The masters were to a degree like the horses they rode, for Nash kept
steadily leaning to the front, his bulldog jaw thrusting out; and Bard
was forever shifting in the saddle, settling his hat, humming a tune,
whistling, talking to the piebald, or asking idle questions of the
things they passed, like a boy starting out for a vacation. So they
reached the old house of which Nash had spoken--a mere, shapeless, black
heap huddling through the night.
In the shed to the rear they tied the horses and unsaddled. In the
single room of the shanty, afterward, Nash lighted a candle, which he
produced from his pack, placed it in the centre of the floor, and they
unrolled their blankets on the two bunks which were built against the
wall on either side of the narrow apartment.


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