It was along towards evening, and I was walking on the banks looking down over the muddy old Colorado, as I always liked to do.

The sun had just set, and the mountains had turned hard and stiff, as they do after the glow, and the sky above them was a thousand million miles deep of pale green-gold light.

A pair of Greasers were ahead of me, but I could see only their outlines, and they didn't seem to interfere any with the scenery.
Suddenly a black figure seemed to rise up out of the ground; the Mexican man went down as though he'd been jerked with a string, and the woman screeched.
I ran up, pulling my gun.

The Mex was flat on his face, his arms stretched out.

On the middle of his back knelt my one-armed friend.
And that sharp hook was caught neatly under the point of the Mexican's jaw.