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When I got to the draw I saw the fifty hombres altogether pounding something with their shovels. I grabbed up a spade and dug my way through to the middle." Henderson's voice was lovingly reminiscent. "There I found Ryan and Connors in bad shape. Connors had backed his cart over an hombre and the whole bunch had started in to kill him. Ryan had run for me and then gone in to help his friend.
The hand had darted swiftly to the fellow's hip, but Bryant's fist was as quick. It shot up, catching the man's jaw and hoisting him off his feet. Next instant the engineer had disarmed the prostrate ruffian. "The Kennard jail for you," said he, in English. "A bad hombre, eh! Up with you, quick." But what followed neither the engineer nor the contractor anticipated.
"You, hombre—what do you want with this?" Herrera, with no friendliness in either voice or eyes, was holding a gun on him. "That book—it looks like the ones I bought in town." Drew was startled by the vaquero’s enmity. "Give it to him," Rennie ordered. For a moment Herrera seemed on the point of open dispute, then he obeyed. But for some reason his weapon remained unholstered.
I’d like to see how much Pa pushed into m’ thick head. Good coverin’ this book has. Wouldn’t you say as th’ hombre that had it was kinda heavy in th’ pocket?" "Yes. In fact, these were bound to order." "How can you tell that?" "These two might have come bound alike." Drew pointed to the book Anse held and The Count of Monte Cristo.
X, p. 385: 'Item ello en sí no tiene ninguna verosimilitud ni apariencia de verdad porque ¿en qué seso cabe que un hombre que no es hablador ni le tienen por tonto, habia de decir un desatino semejante, y en un lugar tan público como es un convite?
Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone, laying a strong emphasis on the last syllable of every word, according to the custom of the gente rufianesca throughout Spain 'Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend of mine. Es mucho hombre. There is none like him in Spain. He speaks the crabbed Gitano, though he is an Inglesito.
"Hombre, quita tu sombrero!" said one of the three knaves, in whose grasp he was, and, before he had comprehended the meaning, the other had snatched his hat a wretched headgear, it is true, but still good on a sunny day or when there was but little rain. Gringoire sighed. Meanwhile the king addressed him, from the summit of his cask, "Who is this rogue?" Gringoire shuddered.
He was a little, old stoop-shouldered hombre about as big as a gun scabbard, with scraggy white whiskers, and condemned to the continuous use of language. Old Cal was so obscure in his chosen profession that he wasn't even hated by the cowmen. And when a sheepman don't get eminent enough to acquire the hostility of the cattlemen, he is mighty apt to die unwept and considerably unsung.
It being evident that it would take a fight to get Dorgan, Walt Lampson stepped back and Mart Cooley took his place. "Mart's a bad hombre, boss," Bill Jordan whispered to Mr. Sherwood. "You ain't got no call t' get killed. You better get out o' this." "Are you going to get out, Bill?" Mr. Sherwood asked, and Bill grinned.
Just now his smile was masking some grim joke and his eyes held the mild light of pity. "Well, Hank," he drawled at last, when Porter had wound up his story, "that yarn, as much as I get of it, would lead the average hombre to pick you out as a sho' 'nuff flyer. I would myself. Me, I'm easy fooled that way. I reckon all you buckaroos think you know somethin' about flyin', eh?"
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