Grey Zane by 1914 The Light of Western Stars by Zane Grey

Author:1914 The Light of Western Stars, by Zane Grey [1914 The Light of Western Stars, by Zane Grey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-11-26T05:40:40+00:00

“Now I tax myself, I can’t jest decide which was the orfulest time I ever hed,” he said, reflectively.

Here Nels blew forth an immense cloud of smoke, as if he desired to hide himself from sight. Monty pondered, and then when the smoke rolled away he turned to Nels.

“See hyar, old pard, me an’ you seen somethin’ of each other in the Panhandle, more ‘n thirty years ago—”

“Which we didn’t,” interrupted Nels, bluntly. “Shore you can’t make me out an ole man.”

“Mebbe it wasn’t so darn long. Anyhow, Nels, you recollect them three hoss-thieves I hung all on one cottonwood-tree, an’ likewise thet boo-tiful blond gurl I rescooed from a band of cutthroats who murdered her paw, ole Bill Warren, the buffalo-hunter? Now, which of them two scraps was the turriblest, in your idee?”

“Monty, my memory’s shore bad,” replied the unimpeachable Nels.

“Tell us about the beautiful blonde,” cried at least three of the ladies. Dorothy, who had suffered from nightmare because of a former story of hanging men on trees, had voicelessly appealed to Monty to spare her more of that.

“All right, we’ll hev the blond gurl,” said Monty, settling back, “though I ain’t thinkin’ her story is most turrible of the two, an’ it’ll rake over tender affections long slumberin’ in my breast.”

As he paused there came a sharp, rapping sound. This appeared to be Nels knocking the ashes out of his pipe on a stump—a true indication of the passing of content from that jealous cowboy.

“It was down in the Panhandle, ‘way over in the west end of thet Comanche huntin’-ground, an’ all the redskins an’ outlaws in thet country were hidin’ in the river-bottoms, an’ chasin’ some of the last buffalo herds thet hed wintered in there. I was a young buck them days, an’ purty much of a desperado, I’m thinkin’. Though of all the seventeen notches on my gun—an’ each notch meant a man killed face to face—there was only one thet I was ashamed of. Thet one was fer an express messenger who I hit on the head most unprofessional like, jest because he wouldn’t hand over a leetle package. I hed the kind of a reputashun thet made all the fellers in saloons smile an’ buy drinks.

“Well, I dropped into a place named Taylor’s Bend, an’ was peaceful standin’ to the bar when three cowpunchers come in, an’, me bein’ with my back turned, they didn’t recognize me an’ got playful. I didn’t stop drinkin’, an’ I didn’t turn square round; but when I stopped shootin’ under my arm the saloon-keeper hed to go over to the sawmill an’ fetch a heap of sawdust to cover up what was left of them three cowpunchers, after they was hauled out. You see, I was rough them days, an’ would shoot ears off an’ noses off an’ hands off; when in later days I’d jest kill a man quick, same as Wild Bill.

“News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of cutthroats hed murdered ole Bill Warren an’ carried off his gurl.

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