“That’s enough, Sheriff,” said Tex, moving cautiously forward behind his leveled Colt. “I’ll do all th’ talkin’ that’s necessary; yu just listen for a while.”
“Well, well,” replied the sheriff, grinning and simulating surprise. “If here ain’t Tex Williard, too! What’s your pet psalm, sonny? Good God, what a face!”
“What’s that got to do with this?” asked Tex, intently watching for war.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” replied the sheriff. “But, Lord, that cayuse of yours can shore kick! Was you tickling it? They do go off like that some times. Any of your nose coming out the back of your head yet? But to reply to your touching inquiry, I’ll say that the psalm might work in handy after while, that’s all. If you’ll only tell me, I’ll see that it is sung over your grave. But, honest, how did you get that face?”
“That’ll just about do for yu!” cried the cowboy, angrily. “An’ sit still, yu!” he added.
“Say, bub,” confidentially said Shields, “my stomach itches like blazes. Can’t I scratch it, just once?”
“No! Think I’m a fool!” yelled Tex, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Yu sit still, d––n yu!”
“Well, I only wanted to see just how much of a fool you really are,” grinned the sheriff exasperatingly. “Judging from your present position I must say that I thought you didn’t have any sense at all, but now I reckon you’ve got a few brains after all. But suppose you scratch it for me, hey? Just rub it easy like with your left paw.”
Tex swore luridly, too tense to realize what a fool the sheriff was making of him. He could think of only one thing at a time, and he was thinking very hard about the sheriff’s hands.
“Tut, tut, don’t take it so hard,” jeered the sheriff, smiling pleasantly. “Now that I know that you are some rational, suppose you tell me the joke? What’s the secret? Who skinned his shin? What in thunder is all this artillery saluting me for?”