"Who is this kid?" demanded the bully, with a sweep of his arm
toward the intruder.
Nobody seemed to know, wherefore the ranger himself gave the
information mildly:
"Bucky O'Connor they call me."
A faint murmur of surprise soughed through the crowd, for Bucky
O'Connor of the Arizona Rangers was by way of being a public hero
just now on account of his capture of Fernendez, the stage
robber. But the knife thrower had but lately arrived in the
country. The youth carried with him none of the earmarks of his
trade, unless it might be that quiet, steady gaze that seemed to
search the soul. His voice was soft and drawling, his manner
almost apologetic. In the smile that came and went was something
sweet and sunny, in his bearing a gay charm that did not
advertise the recklessness that bubbled from his daredevil
spirit. Surely here was an easy victim upon whom to vent his
spleen, thought the other in his growing passion.
"You want to be my target, do you?" he demanded, tugging
ferociously at his long mustache.
"If you please, seh."
The fellow swore a vile oath. "Just as you say. Line up beside
the other kid.
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