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Updated: May 23, 2025
Once, as she passed a species of caravansary low-roofed, divided into many lockable partitions, and packed tight with babbling humanity she caught sight of a pair of long, black thigh boots, silver-spurred, and of a polished scabbard that moved spasmodically, as though its owner were impatient. "Mahommed Gunga!" she muttered to herself.
The red-headed one gazed about him. From the shadows stepped Peggy's "romantic brigand." "Buck, you put a couple of half hitches about them kids." "The gal, too?" hesitated the silver-spurred one addressed as "Buck." "Sure. Didn't I tell yer to." "Wa-al, I won't. That's flat. I ain't never persecuted women folks an' I ain't goin' ter start now."
"Waal, ef you know so much, let's hear it?" The red-sashed, silver-spurred Buck Bellew reined in closer to his companions, rowelling his little active "paint" horse as he did so, till it jumped and curvetted.
Her boots were of buckskin, silver-spurred. With her hat on, at a distance, one might have taken her for a slim, beautiful boy. Wild Rose swung to the saddle and adjusted her feet in the stirrups. The gunny sack was whipped from the horse's head. There was a wild scuffle of escaping wranglers. For a moment Wild Fire stood quivering. The girl's hat swept through the air in front of its eyes.
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