Brick Davidson had been sheriff of Sun Dog County for two years, during which time both Silent and Harp had worked as deputies; not because they liked the work, but because Brick had needed the services of trustworthy men. Silent Slade had won his nickname because of his ability to talk continuously. He was never short on conversation, except when asleep. Silent was slow of movement, because of his great size, except when the occasion demanded speed; but he was not slow of temper.
Harp Harris was slow to anger, but loved trouble. He could ride anything he could saddle, and rope with deadly accuracy. But his favorite occupation was playing the jew’s-harp. And no one except Harp could recognize his tunes; but there was something about that weird tung-g-ging that soothed the soul of the lean, angular cowpuncher and caused him to relax and close his eyes in ecstasy.
Just now he placed the instrument between his teeth, relaxed against the wall and struck a preliminary note.
“My !” exclaimed Silent, getting to his feet. “That thing is about to start agin’, Brick. C’mon; I’ll buy yuh a drink.”
“All right,” grinned Brick.
They walked outside, leaving Harp humped against the wall, moaning through the vibrating tongue of the harp, his right hand fanning slowly past one of his bat-ears, his eyes shut; while one of his upturned feet jerked an occasional accompaniment, all out of time with the beat of his alleged tune.
“By Gosh, you bettair keep away from de grizz-a-lee,” warned Mose La Clede, a gaunt, bearded Canadian-Frenchman, hitching his belt higher about his hips and shifting the huge quid of tobacco in his cheek.
“She’s de bad wan, and she’s ’ongry for little boy.”
Little “Whizzer” Malloy, five years of age, lifted his inquiring brown eyes and backed away so quickly that the dragging spur on his little foot tripped him and he fell flat in the dirt.