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Updated: May 23, 2025
"I wonder who those silver-mounted spurs are for, there on the tree? They've been put on since this afternoon can't yuh stretch your neck enough to read the name, Cal? They're the real thing, all right." Weary's dejection became more pronounced. "Oh, mamma! am I the only knock-kneed son-of-a-gun in this crowd?" he murmured, and turned disconsolately away.
Frenchy, while being very friendly with Hopalong, a friendship that would have placed them side by side against any odds, was not accustomed to his company and did not notice his absence. Red looked off toward the south for the tenth time and for the tenth time thought that his friend might return. "He's a son-of-a-gun," he soliloquized.
'The Bronco-buster of Powder River! They can't do without me! If any son-of-a-gun here thinks he knows how to break a colt," he shouted, looking around with the irrelevant fierceness of drink and then his challenge ebbed vacantly in laughter as the subject blurred in his mind. "You're not drinking, Lin," said he. "No," said McLean, "I'm not." "Sworn off again?
All I'm afraid of is some one's gave him a raw deal. He's the best blamed old son-of-a-gun I ever did meet up with." The clerk presently returned with three letters addressed to Clay Lindsay, General Delivery, New York. The postmaster handed them to the little cowpuncher. "Evidently he never called for them," he said. Johnnie's chin fell. He looked a picture of helpless woe.
"Yore eighteen to th' bad," replied the foreman. "Th' son-of-a-gun!" marveled Red, riding off. Another whoop interrupted them, and Billy quit watching out of the corner eye for pugnacious calves as he prepared for Hopalong. "Hey, Buck, this here cuss was with a Barred-Horseshoe cow," he announced as he turned it over to the branding man.
"I've been hearing people's troubles for what seems like an eternity, boy, but not a single son-of-a-gun has run to me with his joy until you have. Here, use one corner of my handkerchief while I use the other," and as he spoke that very large and broad-shouldered man released one of my hands, dabbed his own eyes that were sparkling with perhaps a tear, and then handed that handkerchief to me.
"Don't be an old woman, Lute." " ... if you can do it safe. I owe Luck Cullison much as you do, but...." Again they fell to whispers. The next word that came to Curly clearly was his own name. But it was quite a minute before he gathered what they were saying. "Luck Cullison went his bail. I learnt it this mo'ning." "The son-of-a-gun. It's a cinch he's a spy.
The next day Billy appeared whilst Aaron, off duty, was strolling up and down outside the pilot-house, and strolled offensively in his wake. Never a hostile glance or a word from Aaron. At last, tired of dumb show, Billy broke forth with a torrent of imprecation closing with "When are you going to pitch me off the boat, you blankety-blank son-of-a-gun and coward?"
You always was a willful son-of-a-gun," testified his partner, with a grin. "And I reckon I'll have to stay with you to pack you home after the greasers have shot you up." "Don't you ever think it, Steve," came back the cheerful retort. "I've got a hunch this is my lucky game. I'm sitting in to win, old hoss." "What's your first play, Dick?"
Once, he reined in abruptly, and both stopped. Confronting them, a dozen paces away, was a half-grown red fox. For half a minute, with beady eyes, the wild thing studied them, with twitching sensitive nose reading the messages of the air. Then, velvet-footed, it leapt aside and was gone among the trees. "The son-of-a-gun!" Billy ejaculated.
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