Paid off

“Bow-legged runt, eh? And my Skewball pony’s a crow-bait, eh? And I’m too —— small for a growed-up man tuh tackle, am I?”

Each grunting, panting question was punctuated by a stinging slap. Shorty Carroway’s breath came in gasps from between a pair of bruised, bleeding lips.

His weight resting on the heaving chest of the big man under him, knees jammed into the bulging muscles of that beaten man’s forearms, Shorty’s full-swung slaps jolted the swollen, battered face. Then the little cowpuncher’s hand gripped the shock of hair and raised the big head from the sawdust-covered floor.

“Got a plenty?”

Shorty shifted his weight to one side and a sharp-roweled, long-shanked spur raked the ribs beneath the big man’s heavy mackinaw. He grinned mirthlessly into the bloodshot eyes of the heavyweight champion of the Little Rockies.

“Yuh made a crack a few minutes ago that you was the toughest gent in Montana,” grunted Shorty. “Yuh took in too much range, yuh sway-backed, muscle-bound, stove-up ox. Well I’m from Arizona, sabe? And down there, we got cripples that kin lay aside their crutches and whup you. Yuh picked on me because I’m kinda small and a stranger, and yuh grabbed yorese’f a handful uh hornets, didn’t yuh? Got a plenty, —— yuh?”

Another slap sent the miner’s head back into the sawdust.

Tad Ladd, partner of the fighting cowpuncher, paced up and down before a crowd of miners and cowpunchers who crowded backward behind the battered pool table and abandoned faro layout.

“That’s my li’l’ ol’ runt of a pardner, yonder,” he taunted the surly crowd. “My danged li’l ol’ bench-legged pard. Watch him, hombres! Watch him clost while yuh see yore Alder Gulch champeen git his needin’s. Got ary more sledge-swingin’, snuff-eatin’, loud-mouthed fightin’ men that wants tuh git worked down to Shorty’s size and whupped by a gent that does it scientific? Got ary more nasty remarks tuh make about the ponies that me and my pardner rides? Got ary——”

“What the —— goes on in here?”

The voice came from the doorway in no uncertain tones. A gray mustached, white-haired man of stocky build stepped through the swinging doors. To the lapel of his open vest was pinned a sheriff’s badge. A blue-barreled .45 covered Tad.

Behind the sheriff stood a mottle-faced, white-aproned man in shirt sleeves. The man’s clothes were torn and dust-covered. His pudgy hands and mottled face were covered with small cuts.

Tad shoved his gun back into the waistband of his faded overalls. He grinned pleasantly at the sheriff, nodded, then his grin widened as he looked at the portly man in the discolored apron.

“So yo’re back, eh?” he said pleasantly. “Jest like a danged jack-in-the-box. I pitch yuh out the window and yuh come back through the door.”

Tad turned to Shorty, who, heedless of the interruption, was lending an attentive ear to the pleadings of the whipped miner.

“Let up on the big rock-buster, Shorty,” he called. “John Law has done took chips in the game.”

Tad’s words had much the same effect as a bucket of ice water thrown on a couple of fighting dogs. Shorty got to his feet, felt of a discolored and partially closed eye, and reached for papers and tobacco. He grinned uneasily into the cold-blue eyes of the sheriff.

“Hand me my gun, Taddie,” he said, his breath coming in labored gasps. “We’d jest as well be moving along, I reckon.”

But the sheriff blocked the exit.

“I’m takin’ charge uh the shootin’ irons,” he said sternly. “Ante, big ’un. Butts first. Thanks.”

He shoved the tendered weapons into his waistband.

“Will you two come peaceable er do I put the ’cuffs on yuh?”

“Yuh mean we’re arrested?” gasped Shorty.

“Yuh don’t think fer a minute that you trouble hunters kin come into my town, bust out windows and raise —— in general, and not see the inside uh my jail, do yuh?”

Shorty turned a sorrowful gaze on his big partner.

“Kin yuh beat it, Tad? Kin yuh ever tie it? Looks like it’s ag’in the law tuh trim down oxes like that bohunk settin’ yonder, a-feelin’ his sore spots. Down home there’s a bounty on ’em.”

“But we’re a long ways from home, runt. And as the sayin’ goes, we has fell among strangers. Montana ain’t Arizona and our footin’ ain’t so —— solid as she might be.”

“But dang it all, Sheriff,” pleaded Shorty, “the low-down skunk was blackguardin’ my Skewball pony. The best hoss, barrin’ none, that ever packed a cow hand. Yuh seen him outside? Bald-faced black with stockin’ legs? The fastest cow pony north uh —— is Skewball, and I ain’t aimin’ tuh have no quartz-clawin’ pick-rassler hoo-rawin’ me regardin’ him! I’ll gouge his eyes outa him an’——”

Tad’s restraining hand kept Shorty from renewing the fight. The crowd surged forward angrily.

“Easy, runt,” cautioned Tad. “Yuh won yore fight. We’re plumb overmatched.”

“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?”