Keep a-ridin'--for you sure got to be that
'Ridin' Kid from Powder River' this journey--and then some."
Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands. "All this here
hocus comes of the killin' of a old man that never lifted a finger
against nobody--and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur.
But one killin' always means more. I ain't no gunman--or no killer.
But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole in
my hat. I wisht I'd 'a' rode with Pete. I wouldn't ask nothin' better
right now than to stand back to back with him, out in the open
somewhere and let 'em come! Because why? Because the only law that a
man's got in this country is hisself--and if he's right, why, crossin'
over with his gun explainin' his idees ain't the worst way to go.
Anyhow, it ain't any worse than gettin' throwed from a bronc and
gettin' his neck broke or gettin' stomped out in a stampede. Them's
just regular, common ways of goin' out. I just wonder how Pete is
makin' it?"
Andy put on his hat, glanced at the sun, and strode to his pony. Far
across the eastern desert he saw the posse--a mere moving dot against
the blue.
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