Louis for the money.
Hope to have men in four or five days.
"JOHN W. CRAWFORD."
He did not see Jocelyn Truxton in front of the post-office as he rode
past, did not see Hapgood come out of the two-story building and join
her. He saw only the days which were rushing down upon him, offering
him a broken, blunt weapon to fight a giant.
Never once had Conniston doubted as he doubted now. Never before had
all glint of hope been lost in rayless blackness. If he had the five
hundred men, _if he had them now_, there was a fighting chance. But if
he must wait another week before they came--
To-day the telephone line had been completed to Valley City. All day
he had looked forward to a talk with Argyl. Now he swept by the little
office without lifting his head. He could not talk with her; he could
not talk with Tommy Garton even. They would know soon enough, and they
would know from other lips than his.
That night he slept little, but sat staring at the stars, searching
stubbornly to find his lost hope, struggling over and over to see the
way. And all that he could see was a long, dry, ugly cut in the
desert, a vain, foolish, stupid thing; Mr. Crawford a ruined, broken
man; Argyl smitten with sorrow and disappointment; himself the
vanquished leader of a mad campaign; Oliver Swinnerton and his
servitors flushed with victory.
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