“There now,” sez he after supper; “do you mean to tell me ’at that feller wasn’t a coward? Why the’ ain’t enough sand in their whole outfit to blind a flea!”
We just set an’ smoked in silence. When a feller as little as him once begins to crow, the’s nothin’ to do but wait till his spurs get clipped.
[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—A LITTLE GUN-PLAY]
It’s curious how hard it is, sometimes, to get trouble started. We all knew ’at the Cross-branders was ready to clean us out, an’ itchin’ for the job; but the’s one curious little holdback in the make-up of every healthy animal in the world. Every sane animal the’ is wants self-defence as his excuse for takin’ life. I admit that now and again beasts an’ men both get a sort o’ crazy blood-lust, an’ just kill for the sake of it; but it’s the rare exception.
One of us allus made it a point to go along with Horace; an’ most times when we’d meet up with any o’ the Cross-branders, they’d never miss the chance to fling some polite smart talk at him; but the little cuss could sass back sharper ’n they could, an’ I reckon they was suspicious that he wouldn’t ’a’ been so cool if he hadn’t had bigger backin’ than was in sight. It was perfectly natural to think ’at he had been sent out as a lure by some big cattle outfit, or even the government; so they went cautious till they could nose out the game.
One day Badger-face an’ the two Greasers came along when Horace was out ridin’ with Tillte Dutch. Dutch was one o’ these innocent-lookin’ Germans—big, wide-open eyes, a half smile, an’ a sort of a leanin’ to fat. He never had but one come-back to anything—which was to splutter; but he was dependable in a pinch.
“Whatever made you so unspeakable little?” sez Badger-face to Horace.
Horace looked behind him, an’ all about, an’ then sez in surprise: “Who, me?”
“Yes, you,” sez Badger-face. “You seem to dry down a little smaller each day.”
“Well,” sez Horace, speakin’ in a low secret-tellin’ tone, “I’ll tell ya; but I don’t want ya to blab it to every one ya see. When I was a young chap, I used to go with a big, awkward, potato-brained slob, about your size. I could out-shoot him, out-ride him, run circles around him, an’ think seven times while he was squeezin’ the cells of his brain so they’d touch up again’ each other; but one day he made a bet that he could eat more hog-meat ’n I could; an’ he won the bet. When I found out that the’ was one single thing ’at this big, loose-jointed galoot could beat me at, I felt so blame small that I never got over it, an’ this is why I disguise myself in these whiskers.”