“Why the —— don’t you take ’em to the hoosegow?” whined the white-aproned saloon man. “They’ll be gettin’ away if yuh ain’t careful.”
“I reckon not,” said the sheriff. “I got their guns.”
“Yo’re plumb welcome to the smoke-poles, Sheriff,” grinned Tad. “Neither uh the durned things is loaded. Like our pockets, our guns is empty, as the sayin’ goes. Likewise, our bellies. I hope yuh feeds yore pris’ners. We ain’t et since day afore yesterday.”
The sheriff gave the pair an odd look, then herded them outside. They almost collided with an extremely tall, black-clad man who stood on the sidewalk. The man had evidently been taking in the scene from outside. His height permitted him to see over the short, swinging doors into the saloon.
The long-tailed black coat, white shirt and black string tie gave the tall man the appearance of a minister. The man’s face, however, belied such a worthy calling. Lean, thin-lipped, unsmiling, it was a face without a single redeeming feature. His eyes were small, a pale gray in color, set close together on each side of a thin beak of a nose.
A wide-brimmed, weather-worn black Stetson covered the head that Tad felt sure must be bald. The man’s reddish eyebrows met in a scowl as he met the cowpuncher’s frankly curious gaze.
“I bet he’s a cross between a buzzard and a rawhide rope,” said Shorty as the sheriff shoved them along.
“One uh these here fire an’ brimstone sky pilots gone wrong, is my bet. Which of us wins, Sheriff?” added Tad.
“Neither.” The sheriff’s tone was sharp with annoyance. “You shore cooked yore goose with them bright remarks. Yuh’ll git the limit now when yore trial comes up. That was Luther Fox.”
“And who,” inquired the punchers in unison, “is Luther Fox?”