You see, it's for manslaughter."
"Well, don't that beat th' devil, now?" Said Hopalong. He felt sorry
that a citizen of the glorious United States should be prey for
troublesome sheriffs, but he was sure that his duty to Texas called
upon him never to submit to arrest at the hands of a Mexican.
Remembering the Alamo, and still behind his Colt, he reached over and
took up the shining weapon from the table and snapped it open on his
knee. After placing the cartridges in his pocket he tossed the gun
over on the bed and, reaching inside his shirt, drew out another and
threw it after the first.
"That's yore gun; I forgot to leave it," he said, apologetically.
"Anyhow yu needs two," he added.
Then he glanced around the room, noticed the poster and walked over
and read it. A full swift sweep of his gloved hand tore it from its
fastenings and crammed it under his belt. The glimmer of anger in his
eyes gave way as he realized that his head was worth a definite price,
and he smiled at what the boys would say when he showed it to them.
Planting his feet far apart and placing his arms akimbo he faced his
host in grim defiance.
"Got any more of these?" He inquired, placing his hand on the poster
under his belt.
"Several," replied the sheriff.
"Trot `em out," ordered Hopalong shortly.
The sheriff sighed, stretched and went over to a shelf, from which
he took a bundle of the articles in question.
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