Shorty’s voice, loud and high pitched, filled the small cabin. For once, Tad found no fault with his partner’s singing. This, because the sound of the singer’s voice drowned out what noise Tad might be making as he whittled doggedly at the pine log wherein the iron bars of the window were embedded.
Shorty, eyes fixed on the heavy pine door, sang with the air of one who does his duty in the face of great obstacles. Without missing a note, he gathered in a handful of whittlings and shoved the shavings under his hat, which lay on the floor. Then his toe poked Tad’s shin with none too gentle contact and the whittling ceased. Shorty, resuming his seat on the edge of the bunk, sang on, head tilted upward, eyes half closed.
Thus the sheriff found them when he entered, bearing a heavily laden tray.
They looked innocent enough, these two. Shorty, reclining on the bunk, Tad gazing broodingly out between the rusty bars in an attitude of silent dejection.
“Ten o’clock breakfast, Taddie.” Shorty thus broke off his song. “Come and git it er I th’ow it away! Gosh a’mighty, Tad, it’s real grub! Steak and ’taters and pie! Sheriff, yo’re a plumb white man!”
The sheriff grinned and set the tray on the table. The grin gave the old officer an almost benign appearance.
“Have at it cowboys, afore she gits cold. It’s the best I could rustle at the Chink’s place. Yuh earned it, both uh yuh. My hat’s off tuh ary two gents that kin clean up Alder Gulch on empty bellies and with empty guns.”
“Yuh ain’t holdin’ no hard feelin’s?”