“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” she replied. “There ain’t a bronc rider livin’ that ain’t got it some time er another.”
“Never was a rider that never got th’owed,” chanted Tad, trying in vain to catch his partner’s eye. “Never was a bronc that never got rode,” he finished the rime.
But Shorty did not see. Hank was shifting uneasily in his rawhide-bottomed chair. He too, seemed to be trying to convey a silent message of some sort to Shorty.
“But, ma’am, I——”
“Ma, ain’t them biscuits a burnin’?” Hank was sniffing the air like a hound scenting a fox. Ma, her thoughts diverted to the bread, made her way hastily to the kitchen.
Hank’s hand darted to the cupboard and the bottle of whisky came forth once more. This time it went the rounds. Hank replaced the cork and the bottle vanished behind the curtain.
“Now, Ox,” growled Shorty. “How come yuh lied about this here eye?”
“Miz Basset ’lowed that them as mixed up in saloon fights was mighty low-down sorter humans, sabe? Tuh keep yuh from bein’ disgraced, I lied a mite about that black eye that miner hung on yuh.”
“Ma is plumb sot ag’in’ fightin’,” added Hank. “I aimed tuh wise yuh up, but it kinda slipped my mind. Onct, when I gits tangled up in a nice quiet scrap and shows up with a swole-up jaw, Ma kinda quarantined me off and I et, slept and subsisted, as the sayin’ goes, in the blacksmith shop. One uh the boys toted my grub to me. Doggone, she was on the prod. She don’t paw the earth ner beller loud ner bend no rollin’ pins across a man’s withers. No, sir. She jest swells up like a buck Injun, gits proud and haughty and kinda looks a feller over like he was lower than a sheep herder.”
Shorty was not cheered by this bit of news. Ma Basset summoned them to breakfast at this juncture and the little puncher inwardly writhed with the burden of a guilty conscience. Pangs of hunger conquered, however, and he ate as heartily as Tad.