Explore "Robbery under Arms" by Rolf Boldrewood on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Warrigal left his horse at the edge of the timber, for fear he might want him in a hurry, I suppose. He was pretty "fly," and never threw away a chance as long as he was sober. He could drink a bit, like the rest of us, now and then -- not often -- but when he did it made a regular devil of him -- that is, it brought the devil out that lives low down in most people's hearts. He was a worse one than usual, Jim said. He saw him once in one of his breakouts, and heard him boast of something he'd done. Jim never liked him afterwards. For the matter of that he hated Jim and me too. The only living things he cared about were Starlight and the three-cornered weed he rode, that had been a "brumbee," and wouldn't let anyone touch him, much less ride him, but himself. How he used to snort if a stranger came near him! He could kick the eye out of a mosquito, and bite too, if he got the chance.
As for Warrigal, Starlight used to knock him down like a log if he didn't please him, but he never offered to turn upon him. He seemed to like it, and looked regular put out once when Starlight hurt his knuckles against his hard skull.