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"Right you are, pard!" agreed Sonora; but at the door he called back to the greaser: "Come on, you oily, garlic-eatin', red-peppery, dog-trottin', sunbaked son of a skunk!" "Come on, you . . .!" came simultaneously from the Deputy, now untying the rope which bound the prisoner. The greaser's teeth were chattering; he begged: "One dreenk I freeze . . ."