"When we recovers, thar he lies; dead--an' his pony dead with him.
An' he must have got the limit; for, son, the very rowels of his
spurs is melted. Right in the middle of his leather hat-band, where
it covers his fore'ead, thar's burned a hole about the size of a 44-
calibre bullet; that's where the bolt goes in. I remembers, as we
gathers 'round, how Boggs picks up the hat. It's stopped rainin' of
a sudden, an' the stars is showin' two or three, where the clouds is
partin' away. Boggs stands thar lookin' first at the sky, an' then
at the hat where the hole is. Then he shakes his head. 'She's a long
shot, but a center one,' says Boggs."
CHAPTER XVI.
Colonel Sterett's War Record.
It had been dark and overcast as to skies; the weather, however, was
found serene and balmy enough. As I climbed the steps after my
afternoon canter, I encountered the Old Cattleman. He was re-
locating one of the big veranda chairs more to his comfort, and the
better to enjoy his tobacco. He gave me a glance as I came up.
"Them's mighty puny spurs," he observed with an eye of half
commiseration, half disdain; "them's shore reedic'lous. Which they'd
destroy your standin' with a cow pony, utter.
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