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Updated: May 8, 2025
"I reckon yer know, Jack, as how I ginerally git what I goes after," said the slow, drawling voice, "an' that I draw 'bout as quick as any o' the boys. They tell me yo're a gun-fighter, but it won't do ye no good ter make a play yere, fer one o' us is sure to git yer do yer sabe?" "Get me?" Keith's voice and face expressed astonishment, but not a muscle of his body moved.
A look of pained indignation slowly spread over his countenance as he realized beyond doubt that they were really kicking him, and with sturdy vigor. He considered a moment and then decided that such treatment was most unwarranted and outrageous and, furthermore, that he must defend himself and chastise the perpetrators. "Hey!" he snorted, "what do you reckon yo're doing, anyhow?
Consequently, it did not seem likely that the feeling she had evidently awakened in the breast of their lodger was akin to the tender passion. "Am I in yo're way?" he would ask apologetically; and the answer was invariably a gracious if curt one: "No no more than th' cat. Stay wheer yo' are, lad, an' make yo'resen' comfortable."
'It's as well for her, poor creature, said a woman following in the wake of the bearers of the dead. 'But yo're not fit to hold her. Stay, I'll run fetch a pillow and we'll let her down easy on the floor.
His answer took the murderer by surprise. The half-breed suddenly found his throat grasped in a grip of steel. The fingers tightened relentlessly. The Indian's beady eyes began to bulge; his tongue protruded. With all his strength he struggled, but Kid Wolf handled him with one arm, as easily as if he had been a child! "Yo're goin' to answer fo' yo' crime that's what I'm goin' to do about it!"
'It's a queer kind o' story, said Kester, meditatively. 'A should ha' thought as Philip were more likely to ha' gi'en him a shove into t' thick on it, than t' help him out o' t' scrape. 'Nay! said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester; 'yo're out theere. Philip had a deal o' good in him.
There's some mad war-whoops outside that are worse off than we are, because they are at the wrong end of yore gun. I feel sort of sorry for 'em." "Yo're shore a happy idiot," grinned Red. "Hey! Listen!"
He'll be getting steadier as he rests from his fight with the water," Hopalong remarked, and added quickly, "Say, remember that meadow back there a ways? We can make her from there, all right." "Yo're right; that's what we've got to do. He's sending 'em nearer every shot Gee! I could 'most feel the wind of that one. An' blamed if it ain't stopped raining. Come on."
At the close of the meal, Alfred instituted a short and successful search for the plunder, which he found in the stranger's saddle-bag, open and unashamed. "Yo're sure a tenderfoot at this game, stranger," commented the sheriff. "Thar is plenty abundance of spots to cache such plunder like the linin' of yore saddle, or a holler horn.
Racey thumbed Rack Slimson in the ribs. Rack turned his head and saw that Racey was grinning. Rack grew even more spineless. "You see," pointed out Racey in a sardonic whisper. "Yo're up against the pure quill, feller." Which remark at any other time would have been in the worst possible taste, but license is extended to men in peril of their lives.
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