sighting along a rifle barrel, while a 

 cigarette hung limply from his mouth. 



Then in response to a winning smile 

 (after all, a woman's best weapon) he 

 opened the floodgates of his thoughts 

 and poured into my ears a succession 

 of bloodcurdling adventures over which 

 the big, big ' I ' had dominated. \ 



"• Yes," he said musingly of his second 

 murder, as he removed his squint from 

 the fire to me, and a ghost of a smile 

 played around his lips; "yes, it took 

 six shots to keep him quiet, and you 

 could have covered all the holes with a 

 cap box — and his pard nearly got me. 



"That was the year I lost my pard, 

 Dick Elsen. We was at camp near 

 Fort Fetterman. We called a man 

 ' Red ' — his name was Jim Capse. 

 Drink was at the bottom of it. Red he 

 sees my pard passing a saloon, and he 



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