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Updated: May 2, 2025
"We've lost Lamme!" they shouted. "The Injuns got him, first fire." "Fetch up that cannon. Unlimber," Captain Bent was shouting. It was a small brass cannon, but had been so wrapped to protect it from the sand that the men could scarcely untie the knots. Away galloped Captain Bent, on his split-ear mule, to encourage the skirmishers' line. He had to be everywhere at once.
The chief Split-log, who indeed should rather have been named Split-ear, as we shall presently show, was afflicted with an aldermanic rotundity of person, by no means common among his race, and was one, who from his love of ease and naturally indolent disposition, seemed more fitted to take his seat in the council than to lead his warriors to battle.
"I had a reason," declared Racey Dawson, threading a new rawhide string through one of the silver conchas on his split-ear bridle. "I wanted to talk it over good with you first." "Why for? What's there to talk over, I'd like to know? Why " "Because," interrupted Racey, "there's something up, if you ask me." "What for a reason is that?" demanded the irritated Swing.
He was dressed like a top cowpuncher silver-mounted saddle, split-ear bridle and hand-forged bit. The Major was familiar with the type, though this particular individual was unknown to him. "Howdy!" The cowboy let the reins slip through his fingers so his horse could feed, and sagged sidewise in the saddle. "How are you, sir?"
The chief Split-log, who indeed should rather have been named Split-ear, as we shall presently show, was afflicted with an aldermanic rotundity of person, by no means common among his race, and was one, who from his love of ease and naturally indolent disposition, seemed more fitted to take his seat in the council than to lead his warriors to battle.
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