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Updated: June 12, 2025
"'Ign'rant savage stupid brute!" he muttered as Captain Jack sped from the scene of fight; "I reckon she was pretty near right!" At gray dawn he swung down from the back of the little stallion at the door of the Indian's hut. Old Jake asked no questions. The Ramblin' Kid himself volunteered: "Killed a man Sabota got to lay low, Jake some three, four, five days! Then I go south Mexico!"
Tom Poole, the lank marshal, loafed as usual about the Elite Amusement Parlor, over which hung a sullen quiet reflecting the morbid emotions of Mike Sabota, its brutish-built proprietor, resulting from his heavy losses on Thunderbolt in the two-mile sweepstakes when the Gold Dust maverick, ridden by the drug-crazed Ramblin' Kid, darted under the wire lengths ahead of the black Vermejo stallion.
Skinny didn't tell them that his hand had rested on the handle of his own gun determined that he, himself, would kill Sabota if the brute succeeded in choking the Ramblin' Kid to death. "What was the fight about?" Old Heck asked.
They left Captain Jack and Pie Face standing, with bridle reins dropped, across the street and in the broad shaft of light streaming from the open door of the pool-room, and went into the resort. The place was well filled. Sabota had returned, evidently with an ample supply of the fiery stuff he called "whisky."
Sabota stepped quickly forward and with the toe of his shoe kicked the garter toward the bar, where all could see it. "Look what th' Ramblin' Kid's been carrying!" he exclaimed with a coarse laugh. "Some size garter, that!" And guessing at random that it had belonged to Carolyn June, he added: "Old Heck's niece must be damned convenient and accommodating!"
His eyes battered and swollen shut, he could not see the face of his visitor. For a moment Old Heck looked at him, his lips parted in a smile of contempt lightened with satisfaction. "Well, Sabota," he said at last, "th' Ramblin' Kid didn't quite do his duty, did he?
It was flashed over Eagle Butte that the Greek was dead. "So th' Ramblin' Kid killed old Sabota, did he?" the hostler at the livery barn asked Skinny as he stepped out to care for the cowboy's horse. "What was it over? Sabota having th' Ramblin' Kid 'doped' the day of the sweepstakes?" Skinny looked keenly, searchingly, at the stableman.
He answered the speaker and the Greek's effort to get the forty-four at the same time: "Not yet but now!" he cried with a low laugh and leaped with both heels squarely on the bloody face of Sabota! There was a horrible crunching sound as of bones and flesh being ground into pulp.
Had he not wanted to make a fool of himself and get drunk the Ramblin' Kid would not have come to Eagle Butte, the fight would not have occurred, the friend he had ridden with through storm and sunshine whom he had stood "night guard" and fought mad stampedes into "the mill" would not now be an outcast sought by the hand of the law. News of the beating the Ramblin' Kid gave Sabota traveled fast.
"What do you mean 'Sabota having th' Ramblin' Kid doped?" he asked sharply. "Why, didn't you know?" the hostler replied. "I thought everybody knowed. Gyp Streetor told me about it the day of the race I used to know Gyp when he was a kid back east. I saw him as he was beating it to get out of town. He borrowed five dollars from me.
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