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"You got the right idea!" exclaimed the blacksmith, evidently pleased. "All Cheyenne's friends have been waitin' for years for him to clean that slate and start fresh again. He used to be a right-smart hand, before he had trouble." The blacksmith accompanied his conversation with considerable elbow motion and the rattle and clang of shaping horseshoes.
Cheyenne used to be a right-smart man, before he had trouble with that woman of his." "Yes? He told me about it," said Bartley, not caring to hear any more of the details of Cheyenne's trouble. "'Most everybody knows it," stated the smith. "And if I was Sears I'd sure leave this country." "So should I. I've seen Cheyenne handle a gun."
"Don't speak of this to me again. Whatever put such an idea into your head?" said Anne, her sense of humor getting the better of her wrath. It was such an absurd situation. "Yeh're a likely-looking girl and hev a right-smart way o' stepping," said Sam. "I don't want no lazy woman. Think it over. I won't change my mind yit awhile. Wall, I must be gitting. Gotter milk the cows."
"Hevn't ye noticed a right-smart change in Samson?" inquired old Caleb Wiley of a neighbor, in his octogenarian quaver. "The boy hes done got es quiet an' pious es a missionary." The other nodded under his battered black felt hat, and beat a tattoo with the end of his long hickory staff. "He hain't drunk a half-pint of licker to-day," he querulously replied.
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