“Yuh mean that you whupped that big miner by yoreself? Why, Fox claims that big hunkie is a ex-prize fighter!”
Shorty shrugged.
“I dunno about that, mister. If he’s a pug, he’s a pore ’un. You’d uh died laffin’ tuh see Tad a-holdin’ off that gang with a empty gun.”
“And you boys ain’t fightin’ fer Luther Fox?”
“Mister,” said Shorty solemnly, “when me and Tad draws our shootin’ irons, we does it because somebody’s crowdin’ us er our friends, bad. We’re aimin’ tuh go back tuh Arizony some day and we got friends down there that we want tuh look square in the eyes, sabe?”
“Breakfast is about ready,” called Ma Basset from the doorway.
Hank and Shorty got to their feet.
“Ma’am,” said Shorty, flushing hotly, “our hosses is outside the fence yonder. My grub ’ud plumb choke me if I was tuh set down to the table afore I’d took care uh my Skewball hoss. Tad, I reckon, feels the same about his Yaller Hammer hoss. He’d ’a’ said so hisse’f only he’s a-tormentin’ me by makin’ me axe yuh, kin we be excused while we ’tends to ’em. The big walloper pesters me continual when there’s women folks around.”
Shorty was the color of an Indian blanket by now. Tad, grinning widely, winked at Hank.
“Tush, son,” smiled Ma Basset. “Now don’t you pay no attention to him. He’d orter be ashamed uh hisself, tormentin’ a boy half his size. You boys hurry on now and tend to yore ponies. The key to the gate hangs on a nail on the gate post. Unsaddle and turn yore hosses into the pasture. There’s blue-joint grass and water a-plenty there. I’ll put the biscuits and eggs in the warmin’ oven. Hurry, now.”