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Updated: May 12, 2025
He was not a ranger now. He cared nothing for the state. He had no thought of freeing the community of a dangerous outlaw, of ridding the country of an obstacle to its progress and prosperity. He wanted to kill Poggin. It was significant now that he forgot the other outlaws. He was the gunman, the gun-thrower, the gun-fighter, passionate and terrible.
"You can throw a gun?" questioned Hough. "I had a cowboy gun-thrower for a partner for years, out on the surveying of the road. He's the friend I mentioned." "Boy, you're courting death!" exclaimed Stanton. Then the music started up again. Conversation was scarcely worth while during the dancing. Neale watched as before.
The man expanded under her smiles, her teasing, her playfulness, her affection. Neale had no pang in divining the love Larry bore Allie. Drifter, cowboy, gun-thrower, man-killer, whatever he had been, the light of this girl's beautiful eyes, her voice, her touch, had worked the last marvel in man forgetfulness of self. And so Neale loved him.
His pale eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper. "Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?" "Who?" demanded Longstreth. Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid. "That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed Bland, Alloway ?" "An' Hardin."
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