The Killer eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 332 pages of information about The Killer.

“I got a headache,” replied Brower, grouchily.  “Bring out your old dog.”

When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I was engaged in “gentling,” I found that Brower was saddling the mournful creature with my saddle.  My expostulation found him very snappy and very arbitrary.  His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react.  I realized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy.  So I conceded the point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy’s saddle and a cowboy’s gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending.  Also it involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle.  I needed things just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes.

When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finished drawing tight the cinch.  His horse stood dejectedly.  When Brower had made fast the latigo, the horse—­as such dispirited animals often do—­heaved a deep sigh.  Something snapped beneath the slight strain of the indrawn breath.

“Dogged if your cinch ain’t busted!” cried Meigs with a loud laugh.  “Lucky for you your friend did borrow your saddle!  If you’d clumb Tiger with that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin’ out the likely-looking she-angels.”

I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage.  Both of the quarter straps on the off side had given way.  I found that they had been cut nearly through with a sharp knife.  My eye strayed to Ramon’s chestnut horse standing under the shed.


We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats.  It is about three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in every direction.  I did not one bit fancy the canons, the mesquite patches, and the open ground of the usual route.

I beguiled the distance watching Brower.  The animal he rode was a hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shed winter coat.  The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle.  He had shortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles.  He had thrust his derby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coat tightly.  In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch, attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was just about due.  Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide.  Evening was falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swell and draw imminent out of unguessed distances.  I could not help wondering what these gods of the desert could be thinking of us.

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoods that marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to the point to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was going to think of us.  The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that moment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition.  No man could continue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch without some concession to curiosity.  Nor could any mortal for long wear such clothes in the face of Arizona without being required to show cause.  He had got away with it last night, by surprise; but that would be about all.

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The Killer from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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