For Lew was old-seventy-five, eighty, eighty-five--he himself probably did not know just how old--and he had lived through at least two generations of pioneers with a myriad stories about them.

He could string out tales of the Long Trail: Abilene, Wichita, Ellsworth, Great Bend, Newton, where eleven men were murdered in one night; he knew the vigilante days in San Francisco, and early times in Alder Gulch.
"Nobody would of thought Plummer was yaller, but he turned out that way," droned on the narrator.

"Grit?
He had enough to fit out twenty men.

When Crawford shot him and busted his right arm, he went right on and learned to shoot with his left and started huntin' Jack again.
Packed that lead with him till he died, and then they found Jack's bullet in his wrist, all worked smooth by the play of the bones.
Afterwards it turned out that Plummer ran a whole gang; but before we learned that we'd been fools enough to make him sheriff.

We got to Plummer right after he'd finished hangin' a man, and took him to his own gallows." "You'd of thought a cool devil like that would of made a good end, but he didn't.