His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped. CHAPTER IX.
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