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Both were older men, typical cow-punchers, rough and ready, and yet hardly of the same type of the men The Kid had noticed in the Longhorn Saloon in Skull. "I'm not sure that I even want to shoot." The Kid smiled slowly. "Maybe yo'd like to explain why yo' were tryin' to shoot me." "I guess we won't need to explain that," snapped the redhead.
A pinto cayuse rampant; a longhorn steer regardant; two sad-eyed, unbranded calves couchant one in each corner of the shield to kind of balance her up; gules, several clumps of something representing sagebrush; and possibly a rattlesnake coiled beneath the sagebrush and described as "repellent" and holding in his open jaws a streaming motto reading, "I'm a-comin'."
Death; and the Donna Anna. "Locoweed? Do I savey loco?" The Old Cattleman's face offered full hint of his amazement as he repeated in the idiom of his day and kind the substance of my interrogatory. "Why, son," he continued, "every longhorn who's ever cinched a Colorado saddle, or roped a steer, is plumb aware of locoweed. Loco is Mexicano for mad crazy.
I shore waits for your reply with impatience, for I eetches to go back an' shoot up this new hurdy-gurdy from now till sun-up. "Enright takes Doc Peets down by the end of the bar an' thar's no doubt about it, that Peets is the wisest longhorn west of the Missoury an' they has a deep consultation. We-alls is waitin'. some interested, to see what they says.
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