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"I'm not forgettin' how you rode up Escondido when I asked you to go." "You got a lot of sabe, too. You don't go bullin' Into a fight when there's a good reason for stayin' out. At Tolleson's if you had drawn yore gun when the shootin' was on, the whole Lazy S M would have pitched in an' riddled us both. They kept out because you did. That gave me a chance to come through alive."
Those youngsters, wise in the ways of the plains, were filled with sad surprise over the incompetence of it all. "But thar ain't no manner of use in it!" cried Old. "They are just bullin' at it plumb regardless! They ain't handled their cattle right! They ain't picked their route right why, the old Mormon trail down by the Carson Sink is better'n that death-trap across the Humboldt. And cut-offs!
A white Muskrat stuffed in a case "down to the saloon"; old Baccy Bullin, who had been scalped by the Indians forty years ago; and a pipe once smoked by Kit Carson, proved unattractive, so he turned toward the prairie, still white with snow. A mark among the numerous Dog tracks caught his eye: it was the track of a large Jack-rabbit. He asked a passer-by if there were any Rabbits in town.
I'll tell Carlsen a few things first. Equal shares! A fine bunch of socialists they are! Settin' aside that Carlsen's bullin' 'em, as you say. Equal? They ain't my equal, none of 'em, man to man. All men are born free an' equal, says the Constitution an' by-laws of this country of ours. Granted. But they don't stay that way long.
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