But
I restrains myse'f; also I don't notice no weepon onto you. Go
tharfore, an' heel yourse'f, for by next drink time the avenger 'll
be huntin' on your trail. I gives you half an hour to live. Not on
your account, 'cause it ain't comin' to you; but merely not to ketch
no angels off their gyard, an' to allow 'em a chance to organize for
your reception. Besides, I don't aim to spring no corpses on this
camp. Pendin' hostil'ties, I shall rest myse'f in the Red Light,
permittin' you the advantages of the dance hall, where Hamilton 'll
lend you pen, ink, paper, an' monte table, wharby to concoct your
last will. Stranger, adios!'
"By the time Texas gets off this talk an' starts for the Red Light,
the Signal sport is lookin' some sallow an' perturbed. He's shorely
alarmed.
"'See yere, pard,' says Dan Boggs, breakin' loose all at once, like
he's so honest he can't restrain himse'f, an' jest as Texas heads
out for the Red Light; 'you're a heap onknown to me, but I takes a
chance an' stands your friend. Now yere's what you do. You stiffen
yourse'f up with a Colt's '44, an' lay for this Texas Thompson. He's
a rustler an' a hoss-thief, an' a murderer who, as he says, has
planted forty-two, not countin' Injuns, Mexicans an' mavericks.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209