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Updated: June 29, 2025
"That was all in the day's work, and hardly counts for much anyhow. Was that all she said?" "She called you a low-down gambler, a gun-fighter, a a miserable bar-room thug, a a murderer. She she said that if I ever dared to speak to you again, Bob Hampton; that I could leave her house. I just could n't stand for that, so I came away."
In them was a glint of that mysterious humor which other men had seen in them. "I know you're lightning on the draw, Harlan," he said, his faint smile fading a trifle. "I wouldn't have a chance with you; I'm not a gun-fighter. For that reason I don't want any disagreement with you. And I've heard enough about you to know that you don't shoot unless the other fellow is out to 'get' you.
The trailer had no doubt in his mind that Roush was the man who had tried to slip away to the horse. Albeen was a gun-fighter, quick on the shoot, hasty of temper, but with the reputation of being both game and stanch. It would not be in character for him to leave a companion in the lurch. In the scrub pines at the foot of the arroyo Prince found the place where a horse had been tied.
He not only knew how and when to shoot, was game as a bulldog, and keen as a weasel; he possessed, too, that sixth sense so necessary to a gun-fighter, the instinct which shows him how to take advantage of every factor in the situation so as to come through safely. "I didn't do it all," answered Clanton, flushing. "Billie helped, and the Roubideaus got two of 'em."
He was so sure he inquired about the theory of limits. "'The limit, says I, 'is the clothes and contents, body and immortal soul of E. G. W. Scraggs. You slam your wad down and I'll cash it. "It had occurred to me there was no use foolin' longer. If I busted this gun-fighter I went into the drug business; if he busted me I'd take a walk.
"Been makin' his brags what he's goin' to do to you. Says you wheedled him into comin' over to the Lazy Y an' then beat him up. Got Denver Ed with him." Calumet's eyes narrowed. "I know him," he said. "Gun-fighter, ain't he?" questioned the sheriff. "Yep." Calumet's eyelashes flickered; he smiled with straight lips. "Drinkin'?" he invited. "Wouldn't do," grinned the sheriff.
MacNelly's a fine man, Duane. Belongs to a good Southern family. I'd hate to have him look you up." Duane did not speak. "MacNelly's got nerve, and his rangers are all experienced men. If they find out you're here they'll come after you. MacNelly's no gun-fighter, but he wouldn't hesitate to do his duty, even if he faced sure death. Which he would in this case.
He's gettin' wise pretty quick." "Euchre, you're going with me?" queried Duane, suddenly divining the truth. "Wal, I reckon. Either to hell or safe over the mountain! I wisht I was a gun-fighter. I hate to leave here without takin' a peg at Jackrabbit Benson. Now, Buck, you do some hard figgerin' while I go nosin' round. It's pretty early, which 's all the better."
Men of the Holderness type are more to be dreaded. He's a rancher, greedy, unscrupulous, but hard to corner in dishonesty. Dene is only a bad man, a gun-fighter. He and all his ilk will get run out of Utah. Did you ever hear of Plummer, John Slade, Boone Helm, any of those bad men?" "No." "Well, they were men to fear.
He did not wish to directly accuse the gun-fighter of anything, for talk is easily traced to its source and the account of Shorty had filled the foreman with immense respect for the fighting qualities of Red Perris. However, he was equally determined to rouse a hostile sentiment towards him among the cowhands.
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