“Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin’. Wal, I reckon I’m safe enough hyar. You couldn’t hit me in a million years.”
“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed.
“Didn’t I say you couldn’t hit me? What am I coachin’ you for? It’s because you hit crooked, ain’t it? Wal, go ahaid an’ break your back.”
Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build gave evidence of considerable strength. His former strokes had not been made at the expense of exertion, but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It was one of those fateful moments when the air was charged with disaster. As Ed swung the club it fairly whistled.
Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw the ball until it dropped from Stillwell’s shrinking body. His big hands went spasmodically to the place that hurt, and a terrible groan rumbled from him.
Then the cowboys broke into a frenzy of mirth that seemed to find adequate expression only in dancing and rolling accompaniment to their howls. Stillwell recovered his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, and he advanced with a rueful face.
“Wal, boys, it’s on Bill,” he said. “I’m a livin’ proof of the pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You’re captain of the team. You hit straight, an’ if I hadn’t been obstructin’ the general atmosphere that ball would sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.”
Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled a loud blast of defiance at Monty and Link.
“Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We’re waitin’. Come on if you ain’t scared.”
Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two emperors came stalking across the links.