"I shall try to pour oil upon the waters, although I won't be able to
hide my Southern leanings. The Colonel, your father, Harry, will not
seek to conceal his."
"No," said Harry. "He will not. What was that?"
The sound of a shot came from the street. The two ran hurriedly down
the stairway. Three men were holding a fourth who struggled with them
violently. One had wrenched from his hand a pistol still smoking at the
muzzle. About twenty feet away was another man standing between two who
held him tightly, although he made no effort to release himself.
Harry looked at the two captives. They made a striking contrast.
The one who fought was of powerful build, and dressed roughly. His
whole appearance indicated the primitive human being, and Harry knew
immediately that he was one of the mountaineers who came long distances
to trade or carouse in Pendleton.
The man who faced the mountaineer, standing quietly between those who
held him, was young and slender, though tall. His longish black hair
was brushed carefully. The natural dead whiteness of his face was
accentuated by his black mustache, which turned up at the ends like
that of a duelist. He was dressed in black broadcloth, the long coat
buttoned closely about his body, but revealing a full and ruffled
shirt bosom as white as snow.
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