The Promise: A Tale of the Great Northwest — John Shaqi
The Promise: A Tale of the Great NorthwestHendryx, James B. (James Beardsley)
General
The Promise: A Tale of the Great Northwest
Hendryx, James B. (James Beardsley)
Northwestern States -- Fiction; Western stories
XXXIII.--THE PROMISE 259
XXXIV.--THE NEW BOSS 263
XXXV.--A HUNTING PARTY 274
XXXVI.--TOLD ON THE TRAIL 282
XXXVII.--IN THE OFFICE 287
XXXVIII.--CHARLIE FINDS A FRIEND 296
XXXIX.--BILL'S WAY 306
XL.--CHARLIE GOES HUNTING 314
XLI.--THE BLIZZARD 319
XLII.--BUCKING THE STORM 326
XLIII.--IN CAMP AGAIN 338
XLIV.--THE MISSING BONDS 347
XLV.--SNOW-BOUND 358
XLVI.--AN ANNOUNCEMENT 366
XLVII.--MONCROSSEN PAYS A VISIT 374
XLVIII.--THE WEDDING 382
XLIX.--ON THE RIVER 391
L.--FACE TO FACE 399
LI.--THE PROMISE FULFILLED 406
LII.--THE BIG MAN 415
THE PROMISE
CHAPTER I
THE PACE
Young Carmody awoke to the realization of another day.
The sun of mid-forenoon cast a golden rhombus on the thick carpet, and
through the open windows the autumnal air, stirred by just the
suspicion of a breeze, was wafted deliciously cool against his burning
cheeks and throbbing temples.
He gazed about the familiar confines of the room in puffy-eyed
stupidity.
There was a burning thirst at his throat, and he moistened his dry lips
with a bitter-coated tongue. His mouth was lined with a brown slime of
dead liquor, which nauseated him and sent the dull ache to his head in
great throbbing waves.
Upon a beautifully done mahogany table near the door stood a silver
pitcher filled to the brim with clear, cold ice-water. It seemed miles
away, and, despite the horrible thirst that gnawed at his throat, he
lay for many minutes in dull contemplation of its burnished coolness.
The sodden condition of his imagination distorted his sense of
proportion. The journey across the room loomed large in the scheme of
things. It was a move of moment, to be undertaken not lightly, but
after due and proper deliberation.
He threw off the covers and placed a tentative foot upon the floor.
A groan escaped him as his right hand brushed the counterpane. Gingerly
he brought the member within range of his vision--it was swollen to the
wrist and smeared with dried blood, which had oozed from an ugly split
in the tight-drawn skin. Slowly he worked the fingers and frowned--more
in perplexity than distress--at the sharp pain of the stiffened
knuckles.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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