"Say, Jim," said Plant. "They tell me there's a fire over Stone Creek
way. Somebody's got to take a look at it. You and Joe better ride over
in the morning and see what she looks like."
The man stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Oh, hell!" said he
with deep feeling. "Ain't you got any of those suckers that _like_ to
ride? I've had a headache for three days."
"Yes, it's hard luck you got to do anything, ain't it," said Plant.
"Well, I'll see if I can find old John, and if you don't hear from me,
you got to go."
The Supervisor gathered up his reins and was about to proceed when down
through the fading twilight rode a singular figure. It was a thin, wiry,
tall man, with a face like tanned leather, a clear, blue eye and a
drooping white moustache. He wore a flopping old felt hat, a faded
cotton shirt and an ancient pair of copper-riveted blue-jeans overalls
tucked into a pair of cowboy's boots. A time-discoloured cartridge belt
encircled his hips, supporting a holster from which protruded the shiny
butt of an old-fashioned Colt's 45. But if the man was thus nondescript
and shabby, his mount and its caparisons were magnificent.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252