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Updated: June 1, 2025
Then, too, seems one of the hold-ups called the other one Crawford." "A plant," said Dave promptly. "Looks like." Bob's voice was rich with sarcasm. "I don't reckon the other one rose up on his hind laigs and said, 'I'm Bob Hart, did he?" "They claim the second man was Dave here." "Hmp! What time d'you say this hold-up took place?" "Must 'a' been about eleven." "Lets Dave out.
Yore daughter has just saved my life from the police," the Westerner said, and his friendly smile was very much in evidence. "You make yourself at home," answered the owner of a large per cent of the stock of the famous Bird Cage mine. "My guests do, Dad. It's the proof that I'm a perfect hostess," retorted Beatrice, her dainty, provocative face flashing to mirth. "Hmp!" grunted her father dryly.
'No violence, Mr. Durand. Hmp! Different here." An evil grin broke through on the thin-lipped, cruel face. When Bromfield suggested to Clay with a touch of stiffness that he would be glad to show him a side of New York night life probably still unfamiliar to him, the cattleman felt a surprise he carefully concealed.
His enemy lay still, the pistol in his hand. Apparently Sanders had been killed at the first shot. "Come to git me with that popgun, did you? Hmp! Fat chance." The bad man fired again, still approaching very carefully. Round the corner of the house a man had come. He spoke quickly. "Turn yore gun this way, Dug." It was Shorty. His revolver flashed at the same instant.
D'you s'pose I haven't eyes in my head?" The veneer of sobriety Beresford imposed on his countenance refused to stay put. MacLean fumed on. "Hmp! Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre, eh? Very pretty. Very romantic, no doubt. But damned sentimental tommyrot, just the same." "Yes, sir," agreed the constable, barking into a cough just in time to cut off a laugh.
Sweeney is not the kind of a partner to stay with you to the finish if your luck turns bad. When I give my word I go through." Dingwell looked at his cards. "Check to the pat hand. . . . Point is, Hal, that I don't expect my luck to turn bad." "Hmp! Go in with Sweeney and you'll have bad luck all right. I'll promise you that. Better talk this over with me and put a deal through."
"Hmp! You better go back an' see old man Webb about it. What's yore name, kid?" For just an eye-beat the boy hesitated. "Call me Jim Thursday." A glimmer of a smile rested in the eyes of the Texan. He was willing to bet that this young fellow would not have given him that name if to-day had not happened to be the fifth day of the week. But it was all one to the cowpuncher.
Some of those willing lads of Miss Valdés don't need any hiring. They want to see what I'm up to. They're not overlooking any bets." "But they may shoot you." He looked at her drolly. "They may, but I'll be there at the time. I'm not sleeping on the job, Miss Kate." "You didn't turn around once yesterday." "Hmp! I saw them out of the edge of my eyes.
"Hmp!" grunted the rancher suspiciously. "That's what you say, but you're not the whole works." Kirby offered a chair and a cigar. He sat down on the bed himself. "Better spill your story to me, Olson. Two heads are better than one," he said carelessly. The Swede's sullen eyes bored into him. Before that frank and engaging smile his doubts lost force. "I got to take a chance.
Something of the Indian was in the high cheekbones of his rough, unshaven, coffee-colored face. The old ruffian looked what he was, a terrible man, one who could brush out a human life as lightly as he did the ash from his cigar. "I don't know. Perhaps. Can you give me a commission?" "Hmp!" The beadlike eyes of the bandit took in shrewdly the competence of this quiet, brown-faced man.
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