PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
Project Gutenberg Archive
Complete unabridged public-domain literary work from the Project Gutenberg archive.
Project Ashabi is being built as the home of original African comics, webtoons, graphic novels, and fiction.
This third-party Novel / Book title is temporary preview content. Step by step, third-party titles will be phased out and replaced exclusively by Ashabi Originals created by African writers and artists.
Produced by Pat Pflieger. HTML version by Al Haines.
I THE TOUCH OF A CHILD II BRICK MAKES A MOVE III FLIGHT IV AN UNWONTED PRAYER V A NEW ROBINSON CRUSOE VI A MYSTERIOUS GUEST VII RED FEATHER VIII GETTING CIVILIZED IX A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY X THE FLAG OF TRUCE XI THE HALF-OPENED BUD XII THE BIG WORLD XIII A SURE-ENOUGH MAN XIV WRITING HOME XV THE DAY OF FENCES XVI THE ONYX PIN XVII BRICK MAKES A STAND XVIII LIFE ON ONE CONDITION XIX LIKE LOVERS XX TOGETHER XXI THE NORTHER XXII JOURNEY'S END XXIII FACING THE MOB XXIV MINE ENEMY XXV GLEDWARE'S POSSESSIONS XXVI JUST A HABIT
"I have given my word of honor--my sacred oath--not to betray what I have discovered here."
At these words from the prisoner, a shout arose in which oaths and mocking laughter mingled like the growling and snapping of hunger-maddened wolves.
"Then if I must die," Gledware cried, his voice, in its shrill excitement, dominating the ferocious insults of the ruffians, "don't kill the child--you see she is asleep--and she's so young--only five. Even if she were awake, she wouldn't know how to tell about this cabin. For God's sake, don't kill the little girl!"
Since the seizure of Gledware, the child had been lying on the rude table in the midst of a greasy pack of cards--cards that had been thrown down at the sound of his galloping horse. The table supported, also, much of the booty captured from the wagon-train, while on the dirt floor beside it were prizes of the freebooting expedition, too large to find resting-place on the boards. Nor was this all. Mingled with stolen garments, cans and boxes of provisions, purses and bags of gold, were the Indian disguises in which the highwaymen from No-Man's Land had descended on the prairie-schooners on their tedious journey from Abilene, Kansas, toward the Southwest.
In the midst of this confusion of disguises, booty and playing-cards, surrounded by cruel and sensual faces, the child slept soundly, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks delicately flushed, her face eloquent in its appeal of helplessness, innocence and beauty. One of the band, a tall broad-shouldered man of middle-age, with an immense quantity of whiskers perhaps worn as a visible sign of inward wildness, was, despite his hardened nature, moved to remonstrance. Under cover of lurid oaths and outrageous obscenity, he advanced his opinion that "the kid" needn't be shot just because her father was a sneak-jug spy.
"Shut up!" roared a tremendous voice, not directly to the intercessor, or to the prisoner, but to all present. Evidently it was a voice of authority, for comparative silence followed the command. The speaker stepped forward, thrust his fingers through his intensely red shock of hair, and continued, with one leg thrust forward:
Arthur Conan Doyle
