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Brand, Max, 1892-1944

"Trailin'!"

"
"Never in a thousand years."
"He don't know the country. He'll travel in a circle and I'll ride him
down."
"He's got somebody with him that knows the country better'n you or me."
"Who?"
The face of Nash twisted into an ugly grimace.
"Sally Fortune."
"The hell!"
"It is; but it's true."
"It ain't possible. Sally ain't the kind to make a fool of herself
about any man, let alone a gun-fighter."
"That's what I thought, but I seen her back up this Bard ag'in' a
roomful of men. And she'll keep on backin' him till he's got his toes
turned up."
"That's another reason for you to get Bard, eh? Well, I can't send you
after him, Nash. That's final."
"Not a bit. I know too much about you, Glendin."
The glance of the other raised slowly, fixed on Nash, and then lowered
to the floor. He produced papers and Durham, rolled and lighted his
cigarette, and inhaled a long puff.
"So that's the game, Steve?"
"I hate to do it."
"Let that go. You'll run the limit on this?"
"Listen, Glendin. I've got to get this Bard. He's out-ridden me,
out-shot me, out-gamed me, out-lucked me, out-guessed me--and taken
Sally.


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