Aolib.comFragment of Photochrom print of the front of Neuschwanstein Castle, Bavaria, Germany (ca. 1897)

'Me... »

By Caroline Lockhart

Cowboys – Fiction




Caroline Lockhart






Copyright 1911
By J. B. Lippincott Company

Published February 15, 1911
Second printing, February 25, 1911
Third printing, March 5, 1911
Fourth printing, March 20, 1911
Fifth Printing, June 5, 1911
Sixth Printing, July 1, 1911
Seventh Printing, August 17, 1911


CHAPTER PAGE I. “Me–Smith” 11 II. On the Alkali Hill 18 III. The Empty Chair 29 IV. A Swap in Saddle Blankets 48 V. Smith Makes Medicine with the Schoolmarm 58 VI. The Great Secret 79 VII. Cupid “Wings” a Deputy Sheriff 95 VIII. The Bug—hunter Elucidates 110 IX. Speaking Of Grasshoppers–– 123 X. Mother Love and Savage Passion Conflict 130 XI. The Best Horse 142 XII. Smith Gets “Hunks” 156 XIII. Susie’s Indian Blood 162 XIV. The Slayer of Mastodons 169 XV. Where a Man Gets a Thirst 190 XVI. Tinhorn Frank Smells Money 205 XVII. Susie Humbles Herself to Smith 213 XVIII. A Bad “Hombre” 228 XIX. When The Clouds Played Wolf 240 XX. The Love Medicine of the Sioux 248 XXI. The Murderer of White Antelope 272 XXII. A Mongolian Cupid 293 XXIII. In Their Own Way 303



“That Look in Your Eyes–That Look as if You Hadn’t Nothin’ to Hide–is it True?” Frontispiece

“She’s a Game Kid, All Right,” Said Smith to Himself at the Top of the Hill. 22

It Meant Death–but it was Wet!–it was Water! 196

Smith Reached for the Trailing Rope and They Were Gone! 284

They Quirted Their Horses at Breakneck Speed In the Direction of the Bad Lands. 308




A man on a tired gray horse reined in where a dim cattle—trail dropped into a gulch, and looked behind him. Nothing was in sight. He half closed his eyes and searched the horizon. No, there was nothing–just the same old sand and sage—brush, hills, more sand and sage—brush, and then to the west and north the spur of the Rockies, whose jagged peaks were white with a fresh fall of snow. The wind was chill. He shivered, and looked to the eastward. For the last few hours he had felt snow in the air, and now he could see it in the dim, gray mist–still far off, but creeping toward him.

For the thousandth time, he wondered where he was. He knew vaguely that he was “over the line”–that Montana was behind him–but he was riding an unfamiliar range, and the peaks and hills which are the guide—boards of the West meant nothing to him. So far as he knew, he was the only human being within a hundred miles. His lips drew back in a half—grin and exposed a row of upper teeth unusually white and slightly protruding. He was thinking of the meeting with the last person to whom he had spoken within twenty—four hours. He closed one eye and looked up at the sun. Yes, it was just about the same time yesterday that a dude from the English ranch, a dude in knee breeches and shiny—topped riding boots, had galloped confidently toward him. He had dismounted and pretended to be cinching his saddle. When the dude was close enough Smith had thrown down on him with his gun.

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