Death Rides the Night
“George Kincaid’s young voice rasped out angrily at his mother bent over a dishpan in the kitchen. He leaned in the doorway with a black felt hat pulled low over his thin face, twisted in a discontented scowl. George Kincaid was nineteen and he hated the ranch in Powder Valley. Ever since his father had died three years previously he had tried to urge his mother to sell the ranch and let him go to Denver where he vaguely planned to enter some sort of business.
Mrs. Dora Kincaid shook her gray head placidly. She was a stout, middle-aged woman with a cheerful, unlined face. “Robert Kincaid would turn over in his grave if I was to put a mortgage on this ranch,” she told her son. “I mind his last words, spoken when he knew he was passing on. ‘Dora,’ he said, ‘promise me one thing, Dora, that you’ll keep the ranch going for George to take over when him and Amanda get married. I’ll die happy knowing it’ll be waiting for him to settle down on and raise his young-uns like we raised him.’ Them ...were your father’s very words, George, and I remember them like it was yesterday.”MoreLess
Mrs. Dora Kincaid shook her gray head placidly. She was a stout, middle-aged woman with a cheerful, unlined face. “Robert Kincaid would turn over in his grave if I was to put a mortgage on this ranch,” she told her son. “I mind his last words, spoken when he knew he was passing on. ‘Dora,’ he said, ‘promise me one thing, Dora, that you’ll keep the ranch going for George to take over when him and Amanda get married. I’ll die happy knowing it’ll be waiting for him to settle down on and raise his young-uns like we raised him.’ Them ...were your father’s very words, George, and I remember them like it was yesterday.”MoreLess
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