“Accustomed to the movements of horses and men, she noted the weary, shuffling trot of the pony as it crossed the baked clay of the compound toward the Headquarters building.The rider was unshaven, and the dark hair curled around his ears and over the collar of his sun-bleached shirt. When he swung down she noted the gun hung low, the narrow hips, and the powerful shoulders. His hat brim was ragged, and there was a bullet hole through the crown.When he was a few paces from her she could clearly ...see the line of an old scar on his cheekbone. His lean brown face was haggard, and in his eyes there was the daze of a dreadful weariness. On the collar and shoulder of his faded blue shirt was a dark stain of dried blood.Pulling his hat from his head, he slapped it against his thigh in an ineffectual effort to free it of dust, and the attempt caused him to stagger, so that he half fell against the hitch rail.She ran to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?” she asked quickly. “What’s the matter?”The face he turned to her was etched with lines of exhaustion, and was gray under the tan.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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All this nonsense about Sproul. Why doesn't he just shoot him. He's caused the deaths of likely hundreds of people during his career, and this story shows how blatant he is. But L'mour always has to have a childish , silly fight fight, where the fighters' legs "spraddle" and the heel rolls on a pebble at the critical time. etc.
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