Shorty swung open the pole gate and Tad hazed the horses into the open.
Legs spread far apart, hands clenched behind his back, Luther Fox stood in the dusty trail and watched them out of sight. Once more the corners of his cruel mouth twitched oddly. As he watched the rapidly fading dust cloud that hid the partners, his eyes glittered with a look of cunning.
III
“I dunno jest why, Tad,” Shorty broke the silence, “but I shore feel sorry fer that Kipp gent. He’s right old tuh be pestered by a skunk like Fox. His nerves ain’t so steady as they once was. I seen his hand shake when he called Fox’s hand. A man can’t do good shootin’ when his hand shakes, Tad.”
“He’d a played his string out though, Shorty. Even when he knowed Fox ’ud beat him to the draw. Kipp’s game, and I reckon that’s why we kinda cottoned to him. Besides, he shore fed us good. I’m wonderin’ what he meant by sayin’ he’d put honest ca’tridges in our guns? Reckon we’re nosin’ into a range war? Danged if we don’t git into more jams than a burglar. Yonder’s the lone cottonwood.”
The sun had just set and the rolling hills were bathed in the subdued afterglow. The greasewood flat beyond took on the appearance of a dark-green carpet. Distant peaks reflected the last rays of the sun. A covey of sage hens whirred from the brush in front of the horses, then dropped out of sight. Tad and Shorty pulled up in front of the giant cottonwood, eyes fixed on a rudely lettered sign nailed to the wide trunk, a sign riddled with bullets.
Warning to LF men. This here tree is my north boundry. The line runs due west to Squaw Butte. Ary Fox man that crosses that line will be huntin’ trouble and he’ll shore find it. HANK BASSET.
Tad waved a hand toward the sign.
“Yonder’s the reason why me and you are picked fer the steer-gatherin’ job, runt. I knowed there was a ace hid up Fox’s sleeve. What do yuh say, pard? Do we turn back from here er go through with it?”