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Brand, Max, 1892-1944

"Trailin'!"

He can't
fail."
"If I wrung that throat of yours," he said, "I know I couldn't get out
of you where he's gone."
"Because I don't know, you see."
"Don't know?"
"He's given me the slip."
"You!"
"Funny, ain't it? But he has. Thought I couldn't ride fast enough to
keep up with him, maybe. He's gone on east, of course."
"That's another lie."
"Well, you know."
"I do."
His voice changed.
"Has he really beat it away from you, Sally?"
She watched him with a strange, sneering smile. Then she stepped close.
"Lean your ear down to me, Steve."
He obeyed.
"I'll tell you what ought to make you happy. He don't care for me no
more than I care for--you, Steve."
He straightened again, wondering.
"And you?"
"I threw myself at him. I dunno why I'm tellin' you, except it's right
that you should know. But he don't want me; he's gone on without me."
"An' you like him still?"
She merely stared, with a sick smile.
"My God!" he murmured, shaken deep with wonder. "What's he made of?"
"Steel and fire--that's all."
"Listen, Sally, forget what I've done, and--"
"Would you drop his trail, Steve?"
He cursed through his set teeth.


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