Author of “The Grub Line,” “Deuce High,” etc.
I
“Bow-legged runt, eh? And my Skewball pony’s a crow-bait, eh? And
I’m too —— small for a growed-up man tuh tackle, am I?”
Each grunting, panting question was punctuated by a stinging slap.
Shorty Carroway’s breath came in gasps from between a pair of
bruised, bleeding lips.
His weight resting on the heaving chest of the big man under him,
knees jammed into the bulging muscles of that beaten man’s forearms,
Shorty’s full-swung slaps jolted the swollen, battered face. Then
the little cowpuncher’s hand gripped the shock of hair and raised
the big head from the sawdust-covered floor.
“Got a plenty?”
Shorty shifted his weight to one side and a sharp-roweled,
long-shanked spur raked the ribs beneath the big man’s heavy
mackinaw. He grinned mirthlessly into the bloodshot eyes of the
heavyweight champion of the Little Rockies.
“Yuh made a crack a few minutes ago that you was the toughest gent
in Montana,” grunted Shorty. “Yuh took in too much range, yuh
sway-backed, muscle-bound, stove-up ox. Well I’m from Arizona,
_sabe_? And down there, we got cripples that kin lay aside their
crutches and whup you. Yuh picked on me because I’m kinda small and
a stranger, and yuh grabbed yorese’f a handful uh hornets, didn’t
yuh? Got a plenty, —— yuh?”
Another slap sent the miner’s head back into the sawdust.
Tad Ladd, partner of the fighting cowpuncher, paced up and down
before a crowd of miners and cowpunchers who crowded backward behind
the battered pool table and abandoned faro layout.
“That’s my li’l’ ol’ runt of a pardner, yonder,” he taunted the
surly crowd. “My danged li’l ol’ bench-legged pard. Watch him,
_hombres_! Watch him clost while yuh see yore Alder Gulch champeen
git his needin’s. Got ary more sledge-swingin’, snuff-eatin’,
loud-mouthed fightin’ men that wants tuh git worked down to Shorty’s
size and whupped by a gent that does it scientific? Got ary more
nasty remarks tuh make about the ponies that me and my pardner
rides? Got ary——”
“What the —— goes on in here?”
The voice came from the doorway in no uncertain tones. A gray
mustached, white-haired man of stocky build stepped through the
swinging doors. To the lapel of his open vest was pinned a sheriff’s
badge. A blue-barreled .45 covered Tad.
Behind the sheriff stood a mottle-faced, white-aproned man in shirt
sleeves. The man’s clothes were torn and dust-covered. His pudgy
hands and mottled face were covered with small cuts.
Tad shoved his gun back into the waistband of his faded overalls. He
grinned pleasantly at the sheriff, nodded, then his grin widened as
he looked at the portly man in the discolored apron.
“So yo’re back, eh?” he said pleasantly. “Jest like a danged
jack-in-the-box. I pitch yuh out the window and yuh come back
through the door.”
Tad turned to Shorty, who, heedless of the interruption, was lending
an attentive ear to the pleadings of the whipped miner.
“Let up on the big rock-buster, Shorty,” he called. “John Law has
done took chips in the game.”
Tad’s words had much the same effect as a bucket of ice water thrown
on a couple of fighting dogs. Shorty got to his feet, felt of a
discolored and partially closed eye, and reached for papers and
tobacco. He grinned uneasily into the cold-blue eyes of the sheriff.
“Hand me my gun, Taddie,” he said, his breath coming in labored
gasps. “We’d jest as well be moving along, I reckon.”
But the sheriff blocked the exit.
“I’m takin’ charge uh the shootin’ irons,” he said sternly. “Ante,
big ’un. Butts first. Thanks.”
He shoved the tendered weapons into his waistband.
“Will you two come peaceable er do I put the ’cuffs on yuh?”
“Yuh mean we’re arrested?” gasped Shorty.
“Yuh don’t think fer a minute that you trouble hunters kin come into
my town, bust out windows and raise —— in general, and not see the
inside uh my jail, do yuh?”
Shorty turned a sorrowful gaze on his big partner.
“Kin yuh beat it, Tad? Kin yuh ever tie it? Looks like it’s ag’in
the law tuh trim down oxes like that bohunk settin’ yonder,
a-feelin’ his sore spots. Down home there’s a bounty on ’em.”
“But we’re a long ways from home, runt. And as the sayin’ goes, we
has fell among strangers. Montana ain’t Arizona and our footin’
ain’t so —— solid as she might be.”
“But dang it all, Sheriff,” pleaded Shorty, “the low-down skunk was
blackguardin’ my Skewball pony. The best hoss, barrin’ none, that
ever packed a cow hand. Yuh seen him outside? Bald-faced black with
stockin’ legs? The fastest cow pony north uh —— is Skewball, and I
ain’t aimin’ tuh have no quartz-clawin’ pick-rassler hoo-rawin’ me
regardin’ him! I’ll gouge his eyes outa him an’——”
Tad’s restraining hand kept Shorty from renewing the fight. The
crowd surged forward angrily.
“Easy, runt,” cautioned Tad. “Yuh won yore fight. We’re plumb
overmatched.”
“Why the —— don’t you take ’em to the hoosegow?” whined the
white-aproned saloon man. “They’ll be gettin’ away if yuh ain’t
careful.”
“I reckon not,” said the sheriff. “I got their guns.”
“Yo’re plumb welcome to the smoke-poles, Sheriff,” grinned Tad.
“Neither uh the durned things is loaded. Like our pockets, our guns
is empty, as the sayin’ goes. Likewise, our bellies. I hope yuh
feeds yore pris’ners. We ain’t et since day afore yesterday.”
The sheriff gave the pair an odd look, then herded them outside.
They almost collided with an extremely tall, black-clad man who
stood on the sidewalk. The man had evidently been taking in the
scene from outside. His height permitted him to see over the short,
swinging doors into the saloon.
The long-tailed black coat, white shirt and black string tie gave
the tall man the appearance of a minister. The man’s face, however,
belied such a worthy calling. Lean, thin-lipped, unsmiling, it was a
face without a single redeeming feature. His eyes were small, a pale
gray in color, set close together on each side of a thin beak of a
nose.
A wide-brimmed, weather-worn black Stetson covered the head that Tad
felt sure must be bald. The man’s reddish eyebrows met in a scowl as
he met the cowpuncher’s frankly curious gaze.
“I bet he’s a cross between a buzzard and a rawhide rope,” said
Shorty as the sheriff shoved them along.
“One uh these here fire an’ brimstone sky pilots gone wrong, is my
bet. Which of us wins, Sheriff?” added Tad.
“Neither.” The sheriff’s tone was sharp with annoyance. “You shore
cooked yore goose with them bright remarks. Yuh’ll git the limit now
when yore trial comes up. That was Luther Fox.”
“And who,” inquired the punchers in unison, “is Luther Fox?”
“Yuh mean tuh say yuh never heerd tell uh Fox?”
“We’re plumb strangers, mister. Let’s have it. Both barrels.”
“He couldn’t help hearin’ them remarks,” mumbled the sheriff, musing
aloud. “Hmmm. ——’s tuh pay all around.”
“But you was goin’ to tell us about this Fox,” hinted Tad.
“Was I? I reckon not. I don’t talk to nobody about that gent.”
The sheriff’s tone was decisive.
Tad, glancing covertly at the old sheriff, caught a glimpse of
tightly clamped jaws. Beneath shaggy white brows, the sheriff’s keen
eyes smoldered with some inner fire. It was a dogged, sullen look,
strangely out of keeping with the general make up of the grizzled
law officer.
“Yuh don’t mean tuh say that ole scarecrow has yuh buffaloed?” put
in Shorty, wincing as Tad’s spur raked his shin with meaning vigor.
The sheriff turned on Shorty, eyes ablaze with hot resentment.
“Who said I was scared? Whoever told yuh that, lied. Lied, hear me?”
The sheriff fairly trembled with fury. He seemed about to hit Shorty
with the .45 in his hand.
Tad, poised easily on the balls of his feet, clenched his big fist
and his practised eye picked the point where the well-placed blow
would put the sheriff to sleep. There was a look of resignation in
the big puncher’s eyes.
Then the sheriff, with an effort, regained control of himself and
turned from Shorty. Tad gave a sigh of relief. Striking an officer,
even in defense of his partner, was little to his liking.
The trio moved on in silence for some moments. Tad, meeting Shorty’s
eyes, gave his little partner a ferocious look. Shorty squirmed
uneasily.
“I’m askin’ yore pardon, Sheriff,” he said meekly. “I was jest
tryin’ tuh be funny. It was a fool crack to make and I’m plumb
sorry.”
His tone was sincere. The sheriff nodded his silent acceptance of
the apology.
“I reckon it’s shore gally uh me tuh be askin’ ary favors, Sheriff,”
Shorty put in as they halted before the padlocked door of the log
jail, “but would yuh kinda look after our hosses while me and Tad is
penned up?”
“Uh course,” agreed the sheriff. “Yore hosses will be took care of.
Yuh won’t be needin’ ’em where yo’re goin’. Better sell ’em tuh git
lawyer money.”
“Is it goin’ tuh be that bad?” asked Tad seriously.
“Wuss,” came the cryptic reply, and the two prisoners heard the
click of the padlock as the sheriff locked them in.
In dejected silence, the two listened to the receding tinkle of the
sheriff’s spurs.
“Well, my short-complected _amigo_, yuh shore done us proud this
day,” Tad broke the silence. “You and that hair-trigger temper uh
yourn kin shore git us into more trouble than ten judges and a herd
uh law sharps kin git us outa. Yuh mighta put off the show till
after we’d grazed some. I’m ga’ant as a dogie in the spring
follerin’ a hard winter.”
“And if I hadn’t took it up when that box-ankled shovel swinger
insulted us, we’d uh bin run outa town for a coupla uh sheepherders.
You was doin’ a heap uh yellin’ and so on, fer a gent that hates
fightin’. It was you that busted that purty, shiny window by
th’owin’ that drink mixer through it. Yuh mighta slung him out the
door, jest as easy, but no, yuh had tuh go bustin’ things. That
glass’ll set us back the price of ten good drunks and a reasonable
fine. Got ary terbaccer tuh go with this here brown paper, Ox?”
Tad handed over a thin sack with a pinch of tobacco in the bottom.
“Gimme butts on ’er, runt. It’s the tailin’s uh the last sack uh
what was once a full caddy uh smokin. Fer which yo’re still owin’ me
for yore half uh the price. Say, what ails that sheriff, I wonder?
He like tuh busted a ham-string when yuh joshed him about that Fox
feller. Shorty, there’s somethin’ danged queer about the whole deal.
Raisin’ a li’l’ ol’ ruckus in yonder saloon ain’t no penitentiary
offense. The way that ol’ sheriff took on, a man’d thought we’d
killed a few folks. Is them bars yonder solid?”
“Solid as rocks, Tad. Even if they was loose, we bin on short
grazin’ so long that we’re too weak to pry ’em loose. If the paint
hoss hadn’t got drowned crossin’ the Missouri and our beds and grub
got lost, we’d uh bin to the Wyomin’ line by now.”
“And if you and that overworked temper uh yourn hadn’t broke out and
run hog wild yesterday, we’d uh got a square meal and a job with
that outfit we struck at noon.”
“Work fer that spread after that black-muzzled wagon-boss asked me
was I expectin’ boy’s wages and could I hold down a hoss wrangler’s
job! I wisht yuh had let me finish workin’ that smart Aleck over,
Ox. I was jest gettin’ my second wind when yuh drug me off him.”
“Say!”
“Huh?” Shorty, startled by the vehemence of his partner’s
exclamation, turned from his inspection of the bars across the one
window. “What bit yuh?”
“I was jest rememberin’ that black-whiskered gent’s talk. Yuh mind,
Shorty? He says to us that Luther Fox don’t pay out good money to
undersized gents that can’t do a man’s work.”
“Man’s work! I showed him what a man——”
“Dry up. Fergit it. Yuh don’t foller my meanin’. Luther Fox must own
that cow outfit that Black Whiskers works for. _Sabe?_”
“Uh-huh. And supposin’ he does? What of it? Go on from there, big
’un, and let’s see if yore words makes sense.”
“Well, from where I was settin’, that round-up looked like a big
spread. They was holdin’ a herd that a man couldn’t shoot across.
Looked like three hundred head uh hosses in their _remuda_. If this
Fox feller owns that outfit, he’s one danged big cowman, and son, we
shore set into a hard game if we’ve hurt the ol’ rannyhan’s
feelin’s. I don’t like the lay uh the land, Shorty; None
whatsomever.
“If that ol’ wolf sets his mind to it, our hides’ll be hangin’ on
the fence afore mornin’. Yeah. And if him and his black-muzzled
wagon boss ever gits tuh makin’ medicine and the black gent ’lows
we’re the same parties that rode into his camp and raised a ruckus,
me and you is due tuh stretch some rope.”
“That big bohunk of a quartz wrangler’ll be rearin’ tuh work in the
lead uh sech a necktie party, too,” was Shorty’s wry comment.
“What’ll we do, Taddie? Shucks, I hates tuh stay bogged down here
till they come tuh hang us. I don’t have no —— of a lot uh
confidence in that ol’ sheriff feller, if it comes to a fight.”
“Yuh might uh done some heavy thinkin’ along them lines afore yuh
got us into all this, yuh fire-swallerin’ li’l’ ol’ rooster. Now
gimme butts on that smoke so’s I kin smudge some thoughts outa my
brain.”