Tad, a vise-like grip on his partner’s arm, backed quietly away from the door. On tiptoe they retreated to the bunkhouse. Then, with careless step and a whistle coming discordantly from Tad’s pursed lips, they again approached the kitchen.
Ma Basset’s eyes showed faint signs of redness and Hank seemed somewhat ill at ease. He led them back into the front room.
“Biscuits ain’t quite done,” he explained, waving the two punchers to chairs.
He moved stealthily to a cupboard and reached a hand in behind the curtain. It came forth holding a brown bottle.
“Ma keeps it fer snake bite,” he whispered. “Have a nip?”
But before he could hand the bottle to the expectant Shorty, an approaching step sounded from the kitchen. Hank deftly slid the bottle back behind the curtain, a second before his wife appeared in the doorway.
In Ma Basset’s hand was a piece of raw beefsteak and a strip of cloth.
“Fer your eye,” she told Shorty, and forthwith tied the piece of meat over the swollen and discolored member.
“Your pardner was a-tellin’ me how you fell off your hoss and bunged that eye up,” she smiled, standing aside to survey the bandage critically.
“Hoss th’owed me?” returned Shorty dazedly. “Shucks, I——”