The Texan A Story of the Cattle Country   By: James B. Hendryx (1880-1963)

THE TEXAN

A Story of the Cattle Country

by

JAMES B. HENDRYX

Author of

"The Gun Brand," "The Promise," etc.

A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1918 By James B. Hendryx

Fourth Printing

This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York And London

CONTENTS.

Chapter

A PROLOGUE I. THE TRAIN STOPS II. WOLF RIVER III. PURDY IV. CINNABAR JOE V. ON THE FLAT VI. THE RIM OF THE BENCH VII. THE ARREST VIII. ONE WAY OUT IX. THE PILGRIM X. THE FLIGHT XI. A RESCUE XII. TEX DOES SOME SCOUTING XIII. A BOTTLE OF "HOOCH" XIV. ON ANTELOPE BUTTE XV. THE TEXAN HEARS SOME NEWS XVI. BACK IN CAMP XVII. IN THE BAD LANDS XVIII. "WIN" XIX. THE END OF THE TRAIL

THE TEXAN

A PROLOGUE

Exactly twenty minutes after young Benton dismounted from his big rangy black before the door of a low adobe saloon that fronted upon one of the narrow crooked streets of old Las Vegas, he glanced into the eyes of the thin lipped croupier and laughed. "You've got 'em. Seventy four good old Texas dollars." He held up a coin between his thumb and forefinger. "I've got another one left, an' your boss is goin' to get that, too but he's goin' to get it in legitimate barter an' trade."

As the cowpuncher stepped to the bar that occupied one side of the room, a group of Mexicans who had lounged back at his entrance crowded once more about the wheel and began noisily to place their bets. He watched them for a moment before turning his attention to the heavy lidded, flabby jowled person who leaned ponderously against the sober side of the bar.

"Who owns this joint?" he asked truculently, as he eyed with disfavour the filthy shirt sleeves rolled back from thick forearms, the sagging vest, and the collarless shirt band that buried itself in a fold of the fat neck.

"I do," was the surly rejoinder. "Got any kick comin'?"

"Nary kick." The cowpuncher tossed his dollar onto the bar. "Give me a little red licker," he ordered, and grinned at the sullen proprietor as he filled his glass to the brim.

"An outfit," he confided, with slow insolence, "that'll run an eagle bird wheel ain't got no more conscience than a hombre's got brains that'll buck one. In Texas we'd shoot a man full of little holes that 'ud try it."

"Why'n you stay in Texas, then?" growled the other.

The cowman drank his liquor and refilled the glass. "Most fat men," he imparted irrelevantly, "are plumb mindful that they're easy hit, an' consequent they're cheerful hearted an' friendly. Likewise, they mind their own business, which is also why they've be'n let grow to onhuman proportions. But, not to seem oncivil to a stranger, an' by way of gettin' acquainted, I'll leak it out that it ain't no fault of Texas that I come away from there but owin' only to a honin' of mine to see more of the world than what Texas affords.

"The way to see a world," I debates, "is like anythin' else begin at the bottom an' work up. So I selects seventy five dollars an' hits fer Las Vegas."

The fat man pocketed the dollar and replaced it with a greasy fifty cent piece, an operation which the Texan watched with interest as he swallowed his liquor.