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Hendryx, James B., 1880-1963

"The Texan A Story of the Cattle Country"

I'm a-goin' to see that you get it
ironclad an' onredeemable, I ain't got no confidence in no gambler an'
bein' as I've took a sort of likin' to you, I hate to think of you
a-walkin' clean to Montana in them high-heeled boots. After that I'm
a-goin' to start out an' examine this here town of Las Vegas lengthways,
crossways, down through the middle, an' both sides of the crick. An'
when that's off my mind, I'm a-goin' to begin on the rest of the world."
He moved his arm comprehensively and reached for the bottle.
"You wait right here till I get old Ace of Spades," he continued solemnly
when he had rasped the raw liquor from his throat. "If you ain't here
when I come back I'll swallow-fork your ears with this here gat just to
see if my shootin' eye is in practice. The last time I done any fancy
shootin' I was kind of wild--kep' a-hittin' a little to one side an' the
other--not much, only about an inch or so--but it wasn't right good
shootin'."
The half-breed grinned: "A'm stay here till you com' back. A'm fin' dat
you ma frien'. A'm lak' you, _bien_!"
When the Texan returned, fifteen minutes later, the man of many names was
gone. "It's just like I said, you can't trust no gambler," he muttered,
with a doleful nod of the head. "He's pulled out on me, but he better
not infest the usual marts of midnight.


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