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A gang of fellers in knee-pants and yeller leggings come into that country, shootin' everything that hopped up. Millionaires, I reckon they must 'a' been, countin' their guns and the way they left game to rot on the ground. They killed just to kill, and I tracked 'em by the smell of the carcasses behind 'em. They made a sneak and got into Yellowstone Park, and there's where I collared 'em.
I've done more than that I've gloried in it. But somehow, whenever I thought of you in my heart and that was a great deal of the time it was as though you still were a little tyke in knee-pants, with your cap on the back of your head, and a chunk of apple bulging your cheek. Jock, I've been earning close to six thousand a year since I put in that side line of garters.
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