CHAPTER XV. SHORTY NEARLY GOT MARRIED
BREAKING UP A BAD REBEL NEST IS NO PICNIC.
WHEN physical exhaustion called a halt in the fracas, Mrs. Bolster was seated on Jeff Hackberry's breast with her sinewy hands clutching his long hair, and her thumb, with a cruel, long nail, pressing the ball of his one good eye. Shorty was holding down one of the guerrillas who had tried to climb on his back when he was grappling with Hackberry. Si had knocked one guerrilla senseless with his gun-barrel, and now came to a breathless standstill in a struggle with another for the possession of his gun. The children and dogs had broken up into several smaller stormcenters, in each of which a vicious fight was going on. In some it was dog and dog; in some child and child, and in others dogs and children mixed.
Then they all halted to observe the outcome of the discussion between Mrs. Bolster and Jeff Hackberry.
"Holler 'nuff, Jeff, or out goes yer last light," commanded Mrs. Bolster, emphasizing her words by rising a little, and then settling down on Jeff's breast with a force that drove near every spoonful of breath out of him.
"'Frony, le' me up," he begged in gasps.
"Mrs. Bolster," she reminded him, with another jounce upon his chest.
"Mrs. Bolster, le' me up. I'd 'a' got away with that 'ere Yank ef ye' hedn't tripped me with them long legs o' your'n."
"I'm right smart on the trip, aint I," she grinned. "I never seed a man yit that I couldn't throw in any sort of a rastle."
"Le' me up, Mrs. Bolster, an le's begin over agin, an' yo' keep out," begged Hackberry.