"
"All right, pard, jest ter show yer thet I ain't no shorthorn, I'll go
yer. I've got a shooter in my war-bag up ter camp what'll kick ther arm
outer yer socket every time yer pulls ther trigger, but she'll send a
bullet through a six-inch oak beam."
"Anything, so it's odds. I'll go yer. I reckon I could sell it fer a
dollar er so."
"I reckon yer could," said Bud sarcastically. "I wuz offered ten dollars
fer it by a hombre down ter Las Vegas a month ago. But he was a husky
feller, an' wanted a strong shooter. He wanted ter go out huntin' fer a
feller with it, an' I wouldn't let him hev it. Is it a go, shore
enough?"
"It be."
"All right; come over ter ther camp an' stay overnight, an' fill yer
pale American hides with ther best grub what ever wuz cooked on ther
range. Our cook is an artist."
Bud led the way on his little, flea-bitten skeleton of a pony that
snorted and reared, kicked, and showed the whites of its eyes when he
woke it from the drooping position it had held while he was talking to
the old man.
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