"You have chosen your words well.

A singular compound is this Mexican, a mixture of greatness, vanity and evil.

I may talk to you more of him some day.

But I tell you now that I am particularly desirous of not being carried a prisoner to him." He lifted the rifle, put its stock to his shoulder, and drew a bead.
"I think I could hit at forty or fifty yards in this good moonlight," he said.
He replaced the rifle across his knees and sighed.

Ned was curious, but he would not ask questions, and he walked back to his old position by the bank.