The sheriff fairly trembled with fury. He seemed about to hit Shorty with the .45 in his hand.
Tad, poised easily on the balls of his feet, clenched his big fist and his practised eye picked the point where the well-placed blow would put the sheriff to sleep. There was a look of resignation in the big puncher’s eyes.
Then the sheriff, with an effort, regained control of himself and turned from Shorty. Tad gave a sigh of relief. Striking an officer, even in defense of his partner, was little to his liking.
The trio moved on in silence for some moments. Tad, meeting Shorty’s eyes, gave his little partner a ferocious look. Shorty squirmed uneasily.
“I’m askin’ yore pardon, Sheriff,” he said meekly. “I was jest tryin’ tuh be funny. It was a fool crack to make and I’m plumb sorry.”
His tone was sincere. The sheriff nodded his silent acceptance of the apology.
“I reckon it’s shore gally uh me tuh be askin’ ary favors, Sheriff,” Shorty put in as they halted before the padlocked door of the log jail, “but would yuh kinda look after our hosses while me and Tad is penned up?”
“Uh course,” agreed the sheriff. “Yore hosses will be took care of. Yuh won’t be needin’ ’em where yo’re goin’. Better sell ’em tuh git lawyer money.”
“Is it goin’ tuh be that bad?” asked Tad seriously.
“Wuss,” came the cryptic reply, and the two prisoners heard the click of the padlock as the sheriff locked them in.