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Updated: June 27, 2025
A large Texas steer had been chosen for the occasion and roasted in a pit, and they were making ready to serve it. Stacy's eyes stuck out as he saw the cook with a knife almost as long as a sword, cutting off slices as large as a good-sized platter, and serving them on plates scarcely large enough to hold the pieces, without the latter being folded over.
A prolonged snore came from Stacy's bunk; then everything was quiet. Demorest stirred up the fire, cast a huge root upon it, and, leaning back in his chair, sat with half-closed eyes and dreamed.
Stacy's eyes took on a belligerent expression as the second savage bore down upon them, with knees gripped tightly against the side of his pony, half raising himself above the animal's back, reins dropped on the pony's neck. The Indian was guiding his mount by the pressure of legs and knees alone.
It is Kris Kringle; I'm living out here for my health and doing a little ranching on the side." Stacy looked his amazement. "Is is he Santa Claus?" he whispered, tugging at Tad's coat sleeve. "No, young man. I am not related to the gentleman you refer to," grinned Mr. Kringle. There was a general laugh at Stacy's expense.
So I to the office and thence to Stacy's, his Tar merchant, whose servant with whom I agreed yesterday for some tar do by combination with Bowyer and Hill fall from our agreement, which vexes us all at the office, even Sir W. Batten, who was so earnest for it. So to the office, where we sat all the afternoon till night, and then to Sir W. Pen, who continues ill, and so to bed about 10 o'clock.
Upon seeing the party emerge from the back room, they pushed away from the bar and came directly toward Kid Wolf, who was walking in the lead. "Steve Stacy's the hombre in front," Wise whispered. "Be on yore guard." The Kid knew the ex-foreman's type even before he spoke. He was the loud-mouthed and overbearing kind of waddy a gunman first and a cowman afterward.
Tad's clothes were torn, and his limbs were black and blue all the way down where the hoofs of the broncho had raked them again and again. "My arms feel a foot longer than they did. What are you looking at?" Stacy's eyes grew large and luminous as he gazed off over the plains. "Look! Look, Tad!" he whispered. "Fire!
Stacy's pony suddenly leaped to one side, planting its front feet firmly on the ground and arching its back like an angry cat at bay. Stacy did a beautiful curve in the air, landing on his shoulders on the hard ground. He had a narrow escape from breaking his neck. The Rangers howled.
"But the baby!" expostulated Barker. "Stacy's just wild to see him and we can't bring him down to the table though we MIGHT," he added, momentarily brightening. "After dinner," said Mrs. Barker severely, "we will walk through the big drawing-rooms, and THEN Mr. Stacy may come upstairs and see him in his crib; but not before.
I've heard of smoke-eaters, whatever or whoever they are, but I want something a little more lasting," announced Walter Perkins. "No smoked smoke diet for me." "Nor for me," agreed Tad. "What's a smoke eater?" asked Stacy. "I should say that a Pony Rider Boy named Ned Rector was one, according to his own admission," laughed Walter. "Pass the water, please." Walter filled Stacy's cup.
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