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Updated: June 1, 2025
Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell." "You lie!" cried the girl suddenly. They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them. "You hear me say it, Kate," said Denver, losing a little of his calm. "He wasn't as cool as that after killing a man. He wasn't." "All right, honey. Don't you hear him singing out there in the stable?
"What d'ye want to find?" he bluntly asked, after we had ridden the better part of five minutes in silence. "A disabled Burmese," was the reply. "I trust to find some part of his upper-works in a more or less damaged condition." "Burmese!" he echoed in an exclamation. "Good. I win. Larrimer bet me a five he was a Javanese."
With the brightness of the door behind him, his bearded face was wolfish. "Nothing," quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him. "Except that it ain't very popular around here shooting hosses, Larrimer." "Damn you and your ideas," said Larrimer. "I'm going to go my own way. I know what's best." He reached the door, his hand went back to the butt of his revolver.
"You agin?" barked Larrimer. "Me again. Larrimer, don't shoot the horse." "Why not?" "For the sake of your soul, my friend." "Boys, ain't this funny? This gent is a sky-pilot, maybe?" He made a long stride back. "Stop where you are!" cried Terry. He stood like a soldier with his heels together, straight, trembling. And Larrimer stopped as though a blow had checked him.
One must not rush to the heart of his news or he will mortally offend the sensitive Westerner. This is the approved method. The storekeeper exemplified it, and having talked about nothing for ten minutes, quietly remarked that young Larrimer was out hunting a scalp, had been drinking most of the morning, and was now about the town boasting of what he intended to do.
They thought nobody could beat Larrimer." The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre. She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand.
WILLIAM A. USTICK, an elder of the Presbyterian church at Bloomingburg, and Mr. G.S. Fullerton, a merchant and member of the same church, were with Deacon Larrimer on this journey, and are witnesses to the preceding facts. Mr. SAMUEL HALL, a teacher in Marietta College, Ohio, and formerly secretary of the Colonization society in that village, has recently communicated the facts that follow.
Ordinarily Larrimer's gun would have been out long before, but the change from this man's humility of the moment before, his almost cringing meekness, to his present defiance was so startling that Larrimer was momentarily at sea. "Damn my eyes," he remarked furiously, "this is funny, this is. Are you preaching at me, kid? What d'you mean by that? Eh?" "I'll tell you why.
Larrimer Driscoll, was evidently no ready talker, but her interest was so vivid that she was a constant incitement to Joyce, who seemed to have broken bounds, and was by turns grave and gay, imperious and pleading in a succession of moods as natural as a child's and almost as little controlled.
Then he got riled a bit and then whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he's been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you'd measured it off with a ruler, you couldn't have hit exact center any better'n he done.
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