He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. It had been a very long time. The other lay unconscious in a heap. “Why?” he asked, suavely. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. “I want to be your friend,” he said. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Petals!.
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