"There's something out there," he said in a minute, and he gestured toward the brush along the creek. "I figure it's a varmint of some kind. The critters can smell it, and they're spooky."
When I was in the saddle, he added, "You watch that ol' blaze-face mossy-horn on the far side. He's got it in his head to run."
"I know him," I said. "He's a trouble-maker. Next time the Indians come around hunting beef they're going to get him."
(from Chancy, by Louis L'Amour)
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