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He's no good at long range 'cept with a big gun, sir. Don't give him the Winchester. Give it to me, please, sir." Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled off his blazer, and put on Captain Travis's now his uniform coat, and his white pith helmet.
He's no good at long range 'cept with a big gun, sir. Don't give him the Winchester. Give it to me, please, sir." Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled off his blazer, and put on Captain Travis's now his uniform coat, and his white pith helmet.
Well, sir, she was the last to say 'howdy do. Everybody was lookin' the other way then, 'cept me, and I didn't have sense enough. Well, sir, he jist took her hand like somethin' he'd been reachin' fur about two year, an' they looked into each other's eyes, hungry like, an' a sort of joy such as any of us 'ud long to possess come into them two young faces.
I've rode with the vigilantes more'n once, and the vigilantes has rode after me more'n once; in my young days I wa'n't exactly what you'd call a nickel-plated saint. But I never killed a man, 'cept in a fair fight, an' I don't believe in violence unless it's necessary. It's necessary right now, fellers! Moran's gone too far! Things have drawed to a point where we've got to fight or quit.
The Lewallen took his stand against the cliff. Rome picked up the fallen rifle and leaned it against the ledge. "Now, Jas Lewallen, thar's nobody left in this leetle trouble 'cept you 'n' me, 'n' ef one of us was dead, I reckon t'other could live hyeh, 'n' thar'd be peace in these mount'ins. I thought o' that when I had ye at the eend o' this Winchester.
I had heard of him; his sightless, gentle ambition it was to live without making "spots." "Wal, we had blueberry pie for dinner yesterday and I wonder if them rich parents in New York 't left him with me jest because he was blind, and hain't for years took no notice of him 'cept to send his board I wonder if they could 'a' done what he done?
Layin' dere jes' like a dead corpe, 'cept for breavin' hard," wept the woman. "Who is with him?" "Me mos' times an' young Mark. I jes' come down to speak 'long o' you, Marse Fabe, w'en I see de carriage dribe up." "Well, go back to your master. I will speak to my niece, and then come in," said Mr. Fabian, as he hurried out to the carriage.
"He 'ain't got no human feelin's, 'cept for them there canaries," Simmons used to say in an aggrieved voice; "he'll stand and look at 'em and chirp to 'em by the hour an' 'en he'll turn round and swear at you 'nough to take your leg off," Simmons said, bitterly.
"Of course you must," admitted Barren, working steadily the while. "He'm a dear sawl, an' I likes en better'n anybody in the world, I think, 'cept faither. But he's easier to please than faither, an' so humble as a beggar-man. An' I wants to make some cakes for en against tea-time, 'cause when he comes, he bides till candle-lighting or later."
"What sort of bookkeeper is Mr. Bridge?" asked the girl. "Oh, he's all right I guess," replied Grayson grudgingly. "A feller's got to be some good at something. He's probably one of these here paper-collar, cracker-fed college dudes thet don't know nothin' else 'cept writin' in books." The girl rose, smiled, and moved away. "I like Mr.
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