The Award of Justice; Or, Told in the Rockies: A Pen Picture of the West — John Shaqi
The Award of Justice; Or, Told in the Rockies: A Pen Picture of the WestBarbour, A. Maynard (Anna Maynard)
General
The Award of Justice; Or, Told in the Rockies: A Pen Picture of the West
Barbour, A. Maynard (Anna Maynard)
Mountain life -- Fiction; Rocky Mountains -- Fiction
or two views of the Indians and their tepees, he returned to the
depot.
It was now nearly train time, and the number of loungers and loafers
had increased amazingly, considering the size of the town. There were
thirty or forty of them, all more or less resembling the first
specimens, and Rutherford wondered where they stowed themselves away,
not realizing that many came in from little shacks scattered over the
prairies; for to them, the coming of the train from the east was the
one great event of the day.
Among them Rutherford noticed a man, who, though clad as roughly as
the others, yet had an individuality so distinct from them as to be
noticeable even to a stranger. He wore an old soft hat and rough
blouse, his trousers being tucked into a pair of heavy, hobnailed
boots that reached to his knees. He was tall and stooped slightly, but
there was none of the slouching figure and gait that characterized
those around him. His movements were quick, and, when standing
motionless, there was something in his very pose that conveyed an
impression of alertness and of latent strength. His back was turned
toward Rutherford, who was watching him under a sort of subtle
fascination, when suddenly he wheeled, facing him. His eyes were keen
and piercing, and as he looked for an instant at Rutherford with an
expression of suspicion and distrust, and then seemed to survey his
diminutive figure with a quick glance of contempt, that young man felt
a sudden and violent terror in his inmost soul, which was not lessened
when his eyes fell upon a sheath knife and huge revolver in the
stranger's belt. Involuntarily Rutherford's hand went to his hip
pocket, where reposed a dainty, pearl-handled Smith and Wesson,
38-calibre, but he immediately regretted the movement, for the
blue-black eyes watching him scintillated for a moment with a cold,
steel-like glitter, and the lips under the heavy, black beard curled
with a smile of fine scorn, that made our young hero exceedingly
uncomfortable.
The whistle of the approaching train afforded him unspeakable relief,
and at the first opportunity he put himself and his belongings aboard
with a celerity very remarkable in one of his usual dignity.
CHAPTER II.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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