We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
coming! I'm so happy you came."
It was good, but somehow a little frightening, to feel the hard young muscles of his arms around her, and the firm touch of his lips on hers. "You've got my answer for me, Sunday? You're going to come with me to England?"
"I — I — " Gently she freed herself and sat down on the rock, hands braced at her sides, her long hair, the color of the gold-tinted clouds in the west, falling down straight behind her. "I don't know, Arthur. Couldn't we be married here, first, and then go?"
"No, that wouldn't work out," he assured her quickly. "Darling, I don't think you quite understand. We can't be married, you know. . . ."
"We can't be — married? But what — " She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"No — you see, I come from a very old family — I may be the Earl of Brinthrope some day — and I couldn't — well, it wouldn't be right for me to marry you, Sunday. But I love you, darling, and we could have such wonderful times together!"
Eagerly, he tried to take her once more in his arms.
"No, no!" she cried. "Don't, Arthur! Please! I couldn't — "
"Brinthrope!"
It was Jackey's voice. He stood just behind them. And Sunday screamed when she saw what he held in his hands. The scream mingled with the sharp whine of a bullet, and Arthur fell to the ground.
"Come back to the house, Sunday," Jackey said in a tense voice.
"Jackey!" she whispered. "You've killed him!"
Jackey's expression did not change. The shaggy brows were still drawn down over the old eagle eyes; deep lines were still carved between nose and mouth. "Figured to," he said. "No man can say what he said to any gal of mine and get away with a whole skin. Come on back to the house."
She began to edge around the rock, keeping as far as possible from the still figure on the ground, whimpering with fright.
"Oh, Jackey — what are you going to do now?"
"Ain't quite figured that out. You leave him be, now. I'll come down after dark and get rid of the body, somehow."
"They'll find out though, Jackey — somebody will find out!"
"Maybe I'll give myself up, gal," Jackey told her. "We got to figure all that out later."
14
■ Sunday said affectionately, "Bill, I wish I loved you the way you want me to. Maybe I do and don't know it."
But events moved so swiftly that there was no time for Jackey to do what he called "figurin'."
That night, when he returned to the pine grove, Arthur Brinthrope's body had disappeared, and in the morning, when he inspected the spot more closely, he found wolftracks. . . .
"Maybe he's not dead!" Sunday cried at first, grasping at the straw of hope offered by his disappearance.
"Not much chance," Jackey answered gloomily. "Be pretty hard for a feller with a bullet in him to get very far away— even if there wasn't them wolf tracks around. And there ain't nobody down in Silver Creek seen him since yesterday."
Lively hadn't been told of the shooting, and he pottered uneasily about the cabin, fretting at the secret he knew Sunday and Jackey were sharing. But Jackey, for the
RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROK