"I'm sure next to what's eatin' you," Burroughs told him on the day
Sanderson asked for his "time." "You're yearnin' for a change. It's a
thing that gets hold of a man's soul--if he's got one. They ain't no
fightin' it. I'm sure appreciatin' what you've done for me, an' if you
decide to come back any time, you'll find me a-welcomin' you with open
arms, as the sayin' is. You've got a bunch of coin comin'--three
thousand. I'm addin' a thousand to that--makin' her good measure.
That'll help you to start something."
Sanderson started northeastward without any illusions. A product of
the Far Southwest, where the ability to live depended upon those
natural, protective instincts and impulses which civilization frowns
upon, Sanderson was grimly confident of his accomplishments--which were
to draw a gun as quickly as any other man had ever drawn one, to shoot
as fast and as accurately as the next man--or a little faster and more
accurately; to be alert and self-contained, to talk as little as
possible; to listen well, and to deal fairly with his fellow-men.
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