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Updated: May 20, 2025
Kirby asked. "Too far away. Couldn't be sure." "Big as a.45?" "Couldn't 'a' been. The evidence was that it was done with an automatic." "The evidence was that the wound in the head was probably made by a bullet from an automatic. We're talkin' now about the blow on the head." "What are you drivin' at?" the rancher asked, scowling. "He wouldn't bring two different kinds of gun with him.
"Then you're a drunken, easily-led fool. This man's no rancher. He's a rustler. He ruined Martin Cole, the father of your first wife. He's stolen our cattle; he's jumped our water-rights. He's trying to break us. For God's sake, ain't you a man?" "Things have gone bad for me," replied Snap, sullenly, shifting in his saddle. "I reckon I'll do better to cut out alone for myself." "You crooked cur!
"Unlimber, boys!" called Slim Degnan, grimly and significantly as he whipped out his .45. "There's likely to be action!" "Hold on! Wait a minute!" counseled Snake, as Bud and his cousins were about to urge their horses forward. The cowboy reached out, and his hand fell with a firm grip on the bridle of Bud's steed. "What's the idea?" asked that boy rancher.
Suddenly he awoke and hurried along his supply ditch. Barely a trickle was coming down it. The beavers had dammed the intake. I once worked for a rancher who had a homestead on the North Fork of the St. Vrain River, which heads south of Long's Peak. He had just finished clearing a patch of ground to raise "truck" on. "We've got to get rid of some beaver," he told me the very first day.
In the end the rancher promised to do this, but his tone was that of a broken and distraught dotard. All the landmarks of his life seemed suddenly shifted. All the standards of his life hitherto orderly and fixed were now confused and whirling, and Cavanagh, understanding something of his plight, pitied him profoundly.
He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over, he backed into the door. A few seconds of rage had transformed him into a pitiful old man. "But, Al I'm your friend " began Dale, appealingly. "Friend, hey?" returned the rancher, with grim, bitter passion. "Then you're the only one.... Milt Dale, I'm rich an' I'm a dyin' man.
"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one. "No, he ain't," replied Van. And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.
"Where shall I begin?" she bluntly challenged. "He wants to marry you. Now, it seems to me that seven weeks is very short acquaintance for a decision like that. Are you sure you want him?" "Yes, sir; I am." Her answer was most decided. His voice was slightly cynical as he went on. "But you were tolerably sure about that other fellow that rancher with the fancy name weren't you?"
"Hello!" the rancher shouted, springing from under the Texan's falling body. The instant it struck the sand, Wade snatched Neale's revolver from its holster and waited for him to try to rise; but he did not move. A bloody froth stained his lips, while a heavier stain on his shirt, just under the heart, told where the bullet had struck. The man was dead. "Hello! Hello!"
So, since the rancher wasn't anyways overstocked on female relations, an' he had the kid to look after, the one-time boss went out as a camp cook an' took the boy along. He was rustlin' the chuck for this bunch I'm a-tellin' you about, that goes into the coulee.
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