The Shootist

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He thought: When I get there nobody will believe I could have managed a ride like this and neither by God will I.

It was noon of a bodeful day. The sun was an eye bloodshot by dust. His horse was fistulowed. Some friction between saddle and hide, of thorn or stone or knot of thread, had created an abscess on the withers, deep and festering, the cure for which he knew was to cauterize and let the air heal by staying off the animal, but he could not stop. If the horse had suffered, he had suffered more. This was the ninth day of his ride, and the last.

He wore a gray Stetson, a black Prince Albert coat, gray vest and trousers, white shirt, gray bow tie, and boots of black lizard.

Between his backside and the saddle throat was stuffed a soft pillow of crimson velvet trimmed with golden tassels. He could not have endured the journey without the pillow. He had stolen it in Creede, Colorado, from a whorehouse.

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