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Updated: May 1, 2025
Guns popped here and there to ventilate the energy of their owners. Troopers galloped up and down the road in clouds of dust shooting into the air as they rode. Boys who would have run their legs off to obey a whim of Harrison spat contemptuously upon the face of the "Gringo cabrone." Drawn by the hubbub, Captain Holcomb hurried from his house.
"Cabrone!" he screamed, and whipping out his pistol he emptied it after Creede, but the bullets spattered harmlessly against the rocks. Early the next morning Jefferson Creede rode soberly along the western rim of Bronco Mesa, his huge form silhouetted against the sky, gazing down upon the sheep camps that lay along the Alamo; and the simple-minded Mexicans looked up at him in awe.
Snarling, he rose from his seat and faced the cowpuncher. "Liar! Cabrone!" he hissed, reaching for his gun. Already the revolver of Mendoza was flashing in the air. Like a streak Steve's arm swept up. Twice his revolver sounded. There was a crash of breaking glass from the incandescent lights.
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