The cowboy stared at the native from under his wide brimmed hat and bathed for a moment in the glory of his superiority. His eyes narrowed and his hand fell to his holstered gun. This savage had no morals, no manners, no Bible. She had no proper boots and a poor grasp of grammar. He spat on the dirt. Killing her was no worse than shootin' a dog. His head still hurt from the previous nights drinking, the alcohol obliterated the painful memories of his family - the kith and kin he abandoned for this new life, a life seeking a fortune of cold metal. She turned to go; she had been collecting herbs and berries for her family. Tonight they would gather for songs and stories of the ancestors and the spirits. The cowboy raised his gun at her back, gently squeezing on the trigger, playing with the point at which a bullet may or may not be released. The gunshot took him by surprise. She screamed and fell, berries over the parched earth and the herbs a halo of green around her black hair...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 10, 2014.

The only one who said nothing at all was Kip Henry, known as "the Roper," on account of his skill in throwing the lariat. Henry was thin, supple, with a small black mustache, and in his appearance was somewhat dandified, taking great satisfaction in bright colors and in fanciful Mexican garments. He wore a peaked Mexican hat, and his trousers were slit at the bottom, Mexican style.

By mikeb, July 17, 2012.

Found in Frank Merriwell's Triumph, authored by Burt L. Standish.