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doc#137 | You've got no business up here". </p><p> | The | half-breed didn't answer this time. But |
doc#138 | here and there. Squatting, as if waiting. | The | pulsing glow of a cigarette. Since they |
doc#138 | people. Cigarette butts littered the floor. | The | big fans were going, drawing from the large |
doc#139 | connections which bound me to my former existence. | The | flat, hard cap was small, but he thrust |
doc#139 | "He's having some kind of a fit". </p><p> | The | sergeant turned to the door. As he passed |
doc#139 | Powers was covering the remaining guard. | The | man half-reached for the cord of the alarm |
doc#139 | <p> "I won't even try to thank you". </p><p> | The | ex-prison guard was embarrassed. He said |
doc#139 | beside his horse. </p><p> "Good luck". </p><p> | The | murderer lifted his head. "Meaning you |
doc#139 | four rooms, each heated by an iron stove. | The | building was dwarfed by the scene outside |
doc#139 | gravel which was the mountainside. </p><p> | The | gravel was the bed of an ancient river, |
doc#139 | with a narrow face and a too-large nose. | The | eyes always held Hague, eyes of a dead |
doc#140 | would enable her to accomplish it. </p><p> | The | forest was open and freely welcoming, extending |
doc#140 | their soil back to the mountain. </p><p> | The | thought made Pamela shudder. A terrible |
doc#141 | struggle of Tom Lord Vs. Joyce Lakewood. </p><p> | The | car lurched along at a snail's crawl, the |
doc#142 | Pedro. The Ramirez brothers were also along. | The | seventh man was Red Hogan, a wiry little |
doc#142 | porch and through the rain to his office. | The | other five Slash-B men followed them inside |
doc#143 | been in Bates Hole the day of the killing. | The | former scout's alibi couldn't be shaken |
doc#143 | seem sportin' somehow"! </p><p> "Sportin'"! | The | tall sunburnt rustler-hunter stared in |
doc#143 | , the warning notes were rarely ignored. | The | lesson had been learned. The examples were |
doc#143 | that was threatening a beloved way of life. | The | wailing, guitar-strumming minstrels of |