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Updated: June 29, 2025
It was class hate first, then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the hate of disgrace for a murder. No man so fair as a gun-fighter in the Western creed of an "even break"! Wilson's terrible cataclysm of passion passed. Straightening up, he sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the fire. Not many moments afterward he jerked his head high and listened.
Will you give me a chance? After all, maybe I'm not so bad as I seem." "Oh, if you weren't! Russ, are you asking me to trust you?" "I beg you to dearest. Trust me and wait." "Wait? What for? Are you really on the square, Russ? Or are you what George calls you a drunken cowboy, a gambler, sharp with the cards, a gun-fighter?" My face grew cold as I felt the blood leave it.
Later, he said with a show of gossipy excitement to his friend the innkeeper, "Thet fellar was Bent Wade!" "So he told me," returned the other. "But didn't you never hear of him? Bent Wade?" "Now you tax me, thet name do 'pear familiar. But dash take it, I can't remember. I knowed he was somebody, though. Hope I didn't wish a gun-fighter or outlaw on Old Bill. Who was he, anyhow?"
Or it might have been the truth, expressed in that lonely, unguarded hour, from the depths of a man born in the South a man who by his inheritance of race had reverence for all womanhood by whose strange, wild, outlawed bloody life of a gun-fighter he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and mocked his fame.
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