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Gregory, Jackson, 1882-1943

"The Bells of San Juan"

Good news, eh?"
But as he moved on now he kept her hand locked tight in his own. Their
"good, safe trail" was a rough ledge running almost horizontally along
the cliffside, its trend scarcely perceptibly upward. Within twenty
steps it led them into a wide, V-shaped fissure in the rocks. Then
came a sort of cup in a nest of rugged peaks, its bottom filled with
imprisoned soil worn from the spires above. As Norton, relinquishing
her hand, went forward swiftly she heard a man's voice saying weakly:
"That you, Rod?"
"I came as soon as I could, Brocky." Norton, standing close to a big
outjutting boulder upon the far side of the cup, was bending over the
cattleman. "How are you making out, old man?"
"I've sure been having one hell of a nice little party," grunted Brocky
Lane faintly. "A man's so damn close to heaven on these mountain
tops. . . . Who's that?"
Virginia came forward quickly and went down on her knees at Lane's side.
"I'm Dr. Page," she said quietly. "Now if you'll tell me where you're
hit . . . and if Mr. Norton will get me some sort of a light. A fire
will have to do. . . ."
Another little grunt came from Brocky Lane's tortured lips, this time a
wordless expression of his unmeasured amazement.
"I didn't want Patten in on this," Norton explained.


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