The Killer

I want to state right at the start that I am writing this story twenty years after it happenedsolely because my wife and Señor Buck Johnson insist on it. Myself, I don't think it a goodyarn. It hasn't any love story in it; and there isn't any plot. Things just happened, one thingafter the other. There ought to be a yarn in it somehow, and I suppose if a fellow wanted tolie a little he could make a tail-twister out of it. Anyway, here goes; and if you don't like it, you know you can quit at any stage of the game. It happened when I was a kid and didn't know any better than to do such things. Theydared me to go up to Hooper's ranch and stay all night; and as I had no information oneither the ranch or its owner, I saddled up and went. It was only twelve miles from our BoxSprings ranch-a nice easy ride. I should explain that heretofore I had ridden the Gila endof our range, which is so far away that only vague rumours of Hooper had ever reached meat all. He was reputed a tough old devil with horrid habits; but that meant little to me. Thetougher and horrider they came, the better they suited me-so I thought. Just to makeeverything entirely clear I will add that this was in the year of 1897 and the Soda Springsvalley in Arizona.