He
could string out tales of the Long Trail: Abilene, Wichita, Ellsworth,
Great Bend, Newton, where eleven men were murdered in one night; he knew
the vigilante days in San Francisco, and early times in Alder Gulch.
"Nobody would of thought Plummer was yaller, but he turned out that way,"
droned on the narrator. "Grit? He had enough to fit out twenty men. When
Crawford shot him and busted his right arm, he went right on and learned to
shoot with his left and started huntin' Jack again. Packed that lead with
him till he died, and then they found Jack's bullet in his wrist, all
worked smooth by the play of the bones. Afterwards it turned out that
Plummer ran a whole gang; but before we learned that we'd been fools enough
to make him sheriff. We got to Plummer right after he'd finished hangin' a
man, and took him to his own gallows."
"You'd of thought a cool devil like that would of made a good end, but he
didn't. He just got down on his knees and cried, and asked God to help him.
Then he begged us to give him time to pray, but one of the boys up and told
him he could do his prayin' from the cross-beam.
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