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Updated: June 29, 2025
Only that damned unquenchable spirit of the gun-fighter to live to hang on to miserable life to have no fear of death, yet to cling like a leach to die as gun-fighters seldom die, with boots off! Bain, you were first, and you're long avenged. I'd change with you. And Sellers, you were last, and you're avenged. And you others you're avenged. Lie quiet in your graves and give me peace!"
It was then Riggs shot Roy. Shot him from behind Beasley when Roy wasn't lookin'! An' Riggs brags of bein' a gun-fighter. Mebbe thet wasn't a bad shot for him!" "I reckon," replied Dale, as he swallowed hard. "Now, just what was Roy's message to me?" "Wal, I can't remember all Roy said," answered John, dubiously. "But Roy shore was excited an' dead in earnest. He says: 'Tell Milt what's happened.
He was of the hard-headed kind, not to be easily alarmed by visionary terrors, and yet he was manifestly afraid to sleep in the house. I was sufficiently acquainted with his type to comprehend there must be some real cause driving him to retreat to the negro cabins for rest. He was a rough of the Southwest, illiterate of course, but a practical fellow, and, without doubt, a gun-fighter.
He's not crazy like Gulden, but he's just as dangerous. He's dangerous because he doesn't know what he's doing has absolutely no fear of death and then he's swift with a gun. That's a bad combination. Cleve will kill a man presently. He's shot three already, and in Gulden's case he meant to kill. If once he kills a man that'll make him a gun-fighter. I've worried a little about his seeing you.
"Miss Sampson," I began, awkwardly yet swiftly, "I I got to thinking it over, and the idea struck me, maybe you felt bad about this gun-fighter Blome coming down here to kill Steele. At first I imagined you felt sick just because there might be blood spilled.
He was holding his pistol on a double back-action, rapid-fire gun-fighter, and only the fact that Piegan was half drunk and the other performing an impersonal duty had so far prevented the opening of a large-sized package of trouble.
And as my eye swept the curved double row of faces it seemed to me I saw there every man in town with a reputation as a gun-fighter or a knife-fighter or a fist-fighter; and every one of them wore, pinning his delegate's badge to his breast, a Stickney button that was round and bright red, like a clot of blood on his shirt front.
Duane knew, for he had seen them pay. Best of all, moreover, he knew the internal life of the gun-fighter of that select but by no means small class of which he was representative. The world that judged him and his kind judged him as a machine, a killing-machine, with only mind enough to hunt, to meet, to slay another man. It had taken three endless years for Duane to understand his own father.
"I want some of my friends to watch the game," replied Hough. "But I don't allow that red-headed cowboy gun-fighter to come into my place." "That is regrettable, for you will make an exception this time ... Durade, you don't stand well in Benton. I do." The Spaniard's eyes glittered. "You insinuate SENOR " "Yes," interposed Hough, and his cold, deliberate voice dominated the explosive Durade.
"Steve, run down to the marshal's office; Deputy Glendin is there." She took the wet cloth and made a deft bandage for the head of Conklin. With his shaggy hair covered, and all his face sagging with lines of weariness, the gun-fighter seemed no more than a middle-aged man asleep, worn out by trouble. "Is there a doctor?" asked Bard anxiously.
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