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Updated: June 11, 2025
Stetson had been taking off his coat. He now draped it about his rifle-stock, and placed his sombrero on top. "All ready, boys," he cautioned, and raised it slowly into view. Instantly from the centre of the driftwood heap there arose a tracing of blue smoke. Simultaneously, irregular in outline as though punched by a dull instrument, a jagged hole appeared in the felt of the hat.
He crouched back with a sure foreboding of who it was; hence there was little surprise in the actual sight of the faded check suit enwrapping the burly figure, the broad-rimmed "Stetson," and the ragged cigar ceaselessly twisted between fat lips. He looked older, that was all; and he bore marks of illness. Nick Grylls had found them out. Garth was thankful he was alone when it happened.
Presently he gathered up his luggage, shook hands with his neighbour, and put on his hat the same old Stetson, with a gold cord and two hard tassels added to its conical severity. "I get off at this station and wait for the freight that goes down to Frankfort; the cotton-tail, we call it." The old man wished him a pleasant visit home, and the best of luck in days to come.
Luck's voice was surcharged with sarcasm. What do you think they're trying to do, then?" "Aw, the gov'ment wouldn't STAND fer no such actions!" "Well, by cripes, I hain't aimin' to give the gov'ment no job uh setting on my remains, investigatin' why I was killed off!" Big Medicine asserted, and took a shot at a distant grimy Stetson to prove he meant what he said.
Old Jasper was being surrounded, and he mounted again, and all, followed by a chorus of bullets and triumphant yells, fled for a wooded slope in the rear of the court-house. A dozen Lewallens were prisoners, and must give up or starve. There was savage joy in the Stetson crowd, and many-footed rumor went all ways that night.
It enveloped the ranchman, who rode with the loose seat and straight back of his kind; it came to lie deeply on his shoulders and on his broad-brimmed Stetson hat, and in the wrinkles of the leather chaps that encased his legs. He looked steadily ahead, from under reddened eyelids, over the trackless plain that encompassed him.
Symes was convinced that his was the hand, so he lost no opportunity of widening his circle of desirable acquaintances. In his wide-brimmed Stetson, with his broad shoulders towering above the average man, his genial smile and jovial manners, he was the typical free, big-hearted westerner of the eastern imagination. And he liked the rôle; also he played it well. Symes was essentially a poseur.
Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a football. "Here! Give that back!" commanded Chip, laughing. "DON'T make a dish rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won't be fit for the dance." "Gee!
And the pinto tore to shreds the rule of a lifetime: she clambered to her feet without orders and reached up to nibble at the edge of Mahon's Stetson. The Sergeant threw an arm about her neck and pressed his face to the yellow blotch below the left eye. . . . As the evening shadows from the Hills lay long across the prairie, and the birds chirped sleepily, Mahon stood up with a sigh.
And this made him acutely aware that Stetson or an aide had heard everything said between them that afternoon. The autobutle called dinner. Orne changed hurriedly into a fresh lounge uniform, found his way to the small salon across the house. The Bullones already were seated around an old-fashioned bubble-slot table set with real candles, golden shardi service.
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