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Brand, Max, 1892-1944

"Trailin'!"

If you fall down, why, you fall out of an easy place on this
ranch."
The big cattleman wiped a growing perspiration from his forehead and
considered his boss with plaintive eyes.
"This tenderfoot who's coming is green to the range, but he's a hard
man; a fine horseman, a sure shot, and a natural fighter. More than
that, he's coming here looking for trouble; and he'll expect to get the
trouble from you."
Lawlor brushed his moustache anxiously.
"Let someone else take the job--that's all. A hundred ain't to be picked
up every week, but I'll do without it. In my day I've done my share of
brawlin' around, but I'm too stiff in the joints to make a fast draw and
getaway now. Let Nash take this job. He's gun-fighter enough to handle
this bad-man for you."
"No," said Drew, "not even Nash can handle this one."
"Then"--with a mighty and explosive emphasis--"there ain't no possible
use of me lingering around the job. S'-long."
"Wait. This young chap isn't going to murder you. I'll tell you this
much. The man he wants is I; but he knows my face, not my name.


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