Another brown stream that barely missed the breed’s boot.
“Owe yuh another nickel, Pete. That danged spider got plumb outa range. If yo’re honin’ tuh be of any he’p around here, Whiskers, herd that insect back this way.”
Pete Basset, marveling at the little cow puncher’s superb nerve, thrust aside his worries and smiled faintly. Even the guard at the door eyed Shorty with approval.
Slim, of the broken arm, groaned less loudly as he watched Shorty scan the dirt floor for another spider.
A queer lump rose in Tad’s throat as he looked at Shorty’s battered features and saw the split lips twist in a grin.
“The —— li’l’ ol’ game rooster,” mused the big puncher, racking his brain for a plan of attack.
Kipp groaned feebly and opened his eyes. Black Jack, a cup of coffee in his left hand, leered into the sheriff’s pain-shot eyes.
“Mebbe so that rap between the horns brung yuh around to some sense,” he said, fixing Kipp with narrowed gaze. “Had ary change uh mind while yuh was asleep?”
“No.”
“Yo’re forcin’ my hand, mind. I’ve gone too far tuh do any back-trailin’ in this game and you know it. I’m killin’ off these two gents because they know too much. They come a-huntin’ trouble and they got it, a hull bellyful. I sent word tuh Fox that you’d be killed. That was a lie. I’m keepin’ yuh here till that Basset deal is closed and I sell out tuh Fox. Then I’ll turn yuh loose, and me’n these boys is driftin’ to fresh range. I’m leavin’ yuh to settle with Fox if yuh got the guts tuh go through with it. I’ll be a long ways gone so yuh can’t do me no harm, but you kin make it hot fer Luther.”