“Fer gosh sake, dry up,” muttered Tad. “Don’t go sp’ilin’ Joe’s dinner, talkin’ about the breed. Where’n —— yore manners? And mind yuh, act purty when Miz Basset sets yuh alongside thet school-marm at the table.”
Shorty squirmed, his glance darting to an angular maiden lady across the room. Tad chuckled softly.
Joe Kipp, exonerated from the Los Cruces killing and recently returned from the border town, was in a corner with Pete Basset who had that morning made his triumphant return from Deer Lodge.
Ma Basset and the school teacher were fluttering about the room collecting vacant chairs and setting the table. The school teacher, taking advantage of a lull in the operations, headed like a homing pigeon for the vacant place on the setee alongside Shorty. The little puncher grinned in a sickly fashion and swallowed hard.
“We’ll have a chance to finish that thrilling tale of yours now, Mister Carroway,” she cooed.
Shorty, catching Hank’s eye, sent a look of desperate appeal that might have brought results had not Tad interfered.
“If there’s anything Mister Carroway loves, it’s relatin’ them hair-brained escapes uh hisn. Git him tuh tell yuh about the time he stumbled over Lafe Tucker’s tame polecat in the dark, ma’am.”
Ma Basset, sensing Shorty’s agonized frame of mind, came to the rescue.
“Hattie, if yuh don’t mind, will yuh put on the red napkins. I’m gettin’ that hefty that my feet kills me when I’m on ’em long.”
She dropped into a chair and fanned herself with her apron.