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Updated: May 17, 2025
You've chased this country with a feller who might be any old thing from a 'hold-up' to a 'gun-artist, and they're around in plenty north of 60°. And it's the big white heart inside you made you act that way, and I sort of feel that big white heart is still my care, even after we've made good-bye at that old moose head.
Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is ut that even allowin' for th' moonlight can pick a man off thru' th' head wid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan shell on'y? . . . 'Soapy Smith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!" He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then, producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out the type-written sheets of foolscap therein.
"Gully!" the sergeant's voice shook with passion at the other's threat, "ye bloody murdherin' dog! Ye dhirty back-av-th'-head gun-artist! Thryin' for tu come th' 'good-feller' over us av th' Mounted! There's on'y wan answer tu that, an' ye know ut. Now, will ye opin up this dhure, or I'll bust her down!"
The rest of the boys were already on their way to the Oro Rancho across the valley. Williams saw two puckered scars, each above the elbow on Saunders's bared arms. "That was dam' good shootin'," said the foreman, indicating the other's scarred arms. "Fair," said Saunders gruffly. "Takes a gun-artist to put a man out of business that way and not finish him," said Williams, smiling.
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