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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing. The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have to settle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you look after things what's your name? Vjolmar how yuh spell it? I'll swear you in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!"
"Clay's sure one straight-up son-of-a-gun. You'd ought to 'a' seen how he busted New York open to find you." "Did he?" Johnnie told the story of the search with special emphasis on the night Clay broke into three houses in answer to her advertisement. "I never wrote it. I never thought of that. It must have been " "It was that scalawag Durand, y'betcha. I ain't still wearin' my pinfeathers none.
Gotta have four times as much meadow as I've got now, and a house full of books and pictures and things, and more cattle and horses, and a yellow canary in a yellow cage singing his head off out on the porch. Gotta work like one son-of-a-gun, Wilhemina, to get all those things and get 'em quick, so I can stand some show of getting what I really do want." "Well, am I keeping you?"
"Old red-headed son-of-a-gun," murmured the cowboy affectionately, "he shore can fight." As he squinted over the sights of his rifle his eye caught sight of a moving body of men as they cantered over the flats about two miles away. In his eagerness he forgot to shoot and carefully counted them. "Nine," he grumbled. "Wonder what's th' matter?" Fearing that they were not his friends.
"Wils, you-all air the only eddicated cowman I ever loved, but I'm a son-of-a-gun if we ain't agoin' to come to blows some day," declared Bludsoe. "He shore can sling English," drawled Lem Billings. "I reckon he swallowed a dictionary onct." "Wal, he can sling a rope, too, an' thet evens up," added Jim Montana. Just at this moment Jack Belllounds appeared upon the scene.
Bailey could see the lead fly as the blunt slugs flattened on the stone. "The young son-of-a-gun!" muttered Bailey. "Dinged if he ain't shootin' through the open holster! Where in blazes did he learn that bad-man trick?" Thus far Pete had not said a word, even to the horse. But now that he had finished his practice he strode to the rock-target and thrust his hand against it.
Was he not gazing out at this construction work through windows of his soul, once more painted, colored, beautiful, because the most precious gift he might have prayed for had been given him life and hope for Allie Lee? He did not know. He could not think. His comrade, Pat, wiped floods of sweat from his scarlet face. "I'll be domned if ye ain't a son-of-a-gun fer worrk!" he complained.
He said the campaign now in progress, fellow-citizens, marked the gravest crisis in the affairs of our grand old state that an intelligent constituency had ever been called upon to vote down, but that he felt they were on the eve of a sweeping victory that would sweep the corrupt hell-hounds of a venal opposition into an ignominy from which they would never be swept by any base act of his while they honoured him with their suffrages, because his life was an open book and he challenged any son-of-a-gun within sound of his voice to challenge this to his face or take the consequences of being swept into oblivion by the high tide of a people's indignation that would sweep everything before it on the third day of November next, having been aroused in its might at last from the debasing sloth into which the corrupt hell-hounds of a venal opposition had swept them, but a brighter day had dawned, which would sweep the onrushing hordes of petty chicanery to where they would get theirs; and, as one who had heard the call of an oppressed people, he would accept this fitting testimonial, not for its intrinsic worth but for the spirit in which it was tendered.
And all the time he worked his plucky face wore a grim smile. As for the bull, he stood there grunting and pawing the sod furiously, his fiery eyes fastened on the lone figure. But it was not in Dick Austin's make-up to flee from a bull. Instead, he shouted: "Come on, you old son-of-a-gun," and he actually kicked the red silk flag into the air to tantalize the animal.
As the reports died away Buck and Red turned the corner of the store, Colts in hand, and, checking their rush as they saw the saddles emptied, they turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood oozing from an abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with each hand holding a gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke. "Th' son-of-a-gun!" cried Buck, proud and delighted.
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