This sprightly
adventurer had just killed a carload of Mexicans, leaped from the roof
of an adobe to his horse, and made off into the hills--they were real
hills of the desert country, sure enough--as buoyantly as though he had
just received his pay-check and was in great haste to spend it, never
once glancing back, and putting his horse up grades at a pace that
would have made an old-timer ashamed of himself had he to ride sixty
miles to the next ranch before sundown--as the lead on the picture
stated. Still, Pete liked that picture. He knew that kind of
country--when suddenly he became aware of the tightly packed room, the
foul air laden with the fumes of humanity, stale whiskey, and tobacco,
the shuffling of feet as people rose and stumbled through the darkness
toward the street. Pete thought that was the end of the show, but as
Brevoort made no move to go, he fixed his attention on the screen
again. Immediately another scene jumped into the flickering square.
Pete stiffened. Before him spread a wide canon. A tiny rider was
coming down the trail from the rim.
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