author - "Max Brand"
o wrong in it still."And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. Here I lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of the room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolves in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When I go out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot, maybe. "Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that cares, and to know that even after
to that same back. Ronicky Doone clasped his hands around his knees and rocked himself back and forth in a silent ecstasy. He was delighted.And now he saw Blondy slowly produce cigarette papers and tobacco. He saw the cigarette manufactured; he saw it placed between Blondy's lips; he saw the sulphur match separated carefully from the rest of the pack; he saw the cigarette lighted; he saw the handsome head of Blondy wreathed in thin blue-brown smoke. And every other person on the veranda was
to the opening came Baldy and he peered in, though he remained at a distance of five or six paces. Ronicky Doone poised his gun, delayed the shot, and then frowned in wonder. Baldy had turned and was sauntering slowly back toward his companions."Nothing there," he said to the chief, as he approached. Ronicky hardly believed his ears, but a moment of thought explained the mystery. It was pitch dark behind that screening wall, and the darkness was rendered doubly thick by Baldy's
our time, Kate," said Cumberland softly."'Bart,' called Dan," she went on, "and there was such anger in his face that I think I was more afraid of him than of the big dog. "Bart turned to him with a snarl and bared his teeth. When Dan saw that his face turned--I don't know how to say it!" She stopped a moment and her hands tightened. "Back in his throat there came a sound that was almost like the snarl of Black Bart. The wolf-dog watched him with a terror that
e were striving to read a human mind."The curtain ain't up," said the sheriff, "but I reckon that the stage is set and that they's gunna be an entrance pretty pronto." "Here's somebody coming," said Georgia, gesturing toward the farther end of the street. "Yeah," said the sheriff, "but he's comin' too slow to mean anything." "Slow and earnest wins the race," said another. They were growing impatient; like a crowd at a bullfight, when
tire to the life of a country gentleman.His sister's voice cut into his musing. She had two tones. One might be called her social register. It was smooth, gentle--the low-pitched and controlled voice of a gentlewoman. The other voice was hard and sharp. It could drive hard and cold across a desk, and bring businessmen to an understanding that here was a mind, not a woman. At present she used her latter tone. Vance Cornish came into a shivering consciousness that she was sitting beside him. He
with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless riding since she came West and it always angered her. The cowpunchers used "hoss-flesh" rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot. If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be ridden. That was one of her maxims. She stepped closer to the window. Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped
o wrong in it still."And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. Here I lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of the room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolves in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When I go out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot, maybe. "Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that cares, and to know that even after
to that same back. Ronicky Doone clasped his hands around his knees and rocked himself back and forth in a silent ecstasy. He was delighted.And now he saw Blondy slowly produce cigarette papers and tobacco. He saw the cigarette manufactured; he saw it placed between Blondy's lips; he saw the sulphur match separated carefully from the rest of the pack; he saw the cigarette lighted; he saw the handsome head of Blondy wreathed in thin blue-brown smoke. And every other person on the veranda was
to the opening came Baldy and he peered in, though he remained at a distance of five or six paces. Ronicky Doone poised his gun, delayed the shot, and then frowned in wonder. Baldy had turned and was sauntering slowly back toward his companions."Nothing there," he said to the chief, as he approached. Ronicky hardly believed his ears, but a moment of thought explained the mystery. It was pitch dark behind that screening wall, and the darkness was rendered doubly thick by Baldy's
our time, Kate," said Cumberland softly."'Bart,' called Dan," she went on, "and there was such anger in his face that I think I was more afraid of him than of the big dog. "Bart turned to him with a snarl and bared his teeth. When Dan saw that his face turned--I don't know how to say it!" She stopped a moment and her hands tightened. "Back in his throat there came a sound that was almost like the snarl of Black Bart. The wolf-dog watched him with a terror that
e were striving to read a human mind."The curtain ain't up," said the sheriff, "but I reckon that the stage is set and that they's gunna be an entrance pretty pronto." "Here's somebody coming," said Georgia, gesturing toward the farther end of the street. "Yeah," said the sheriff, "but he's comin' too slow to mean anything." "Slow and earnest wins the race," said another. They were growing impatient; like a crowd at a bullfight, when
tire to the life of a country gentleman.His sister's voice cut into his musing. She had two tones. One might be called her social register. It was smooth, gentle--the low-pitched and controlled voice of a gentlewoman. The other voice was hard and sharp. It could drive hard and cold across a desk, and bring businessmen to an understanding that here was a mind, not a woman. At present she used her latter tone. Vance Cornish came into a shivering consciousness that she was sitting beside him. He
with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless riding since she came West and it always angered her. The cowpunchers used "hoss-flesh" rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot. If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be ridden. That was one of her maxims. She stepped closer to the window. Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped