PAID OFF
I
“Bow-legged runt, eh? And my Skewball pony’s a crow-bait, eh? And I’mtoo —— 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 thelittle cowpuncher’s hand gripped the shock of hair and raised the bighead from the sawdust-covered floor.
“Got a plenty?”
Shorty shifted his weight to one side and a sharp-roweled, long-shankedspur raked the ribs beneath the big man’s heavy mackinaw. He grinnedmirthlessly into the bloodshot eyes of the heavyweight champion of theLittle Rockies.
“Yuh made a crack a few minutes ago that you was the toughest gent inMontana,” 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. Yuhpicked on me because I’m kinda small and a stranger, and yuh grabbedyorese’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 beforea crowd of miners and cowpunchers who crowded backward behind thebattered pool table and abandoned faro layout.
“That’s my li’l’ ol’ runt of a pardner, yonder,” he taunted the surlycrowd. “My danged li’l ol’ bench-legged pard. Watch him, hombres!Watch him clost while yuh see yore Alder Gulch champeen git hisneedin’s. Got ary more sledge-swingin’, snuff-eatin’, loud-mouthedfightin’ men that wants tuh git worked down to Shorty’s size and whuppedby a gent that does it scientific? Got ary more nasty remarks tuh makeabout 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 graymustached, white-haired man of stocky build stepped through theswinging doors. To the lapel of his open vest was pinned a sheriff’sbadge. A blue-barreled .45 covered Tad.
Behind the sheriff stood a mottle-faced, white-aproned man in shirtsleeves. The man’s clothes were torn and dust-covered. His pudgyhands and mottled face were covered with small cuts.
Tad shoved his gun back into the waistband of his faded overalls. Hegrinned pleasantly at the sheriff, nodded, then his grin widened as helooked at the portly man in the discolored apron.
“So yo’re back, eh?” he said pleasantly. “Jest like a dangedjack-in-the-box. I pitch yuh out the window and yuh come back throughthe door.”
Tad turned to Shorty, who, heedless of the interruption, was lendingan attentive ear to the pleadings of the whipped miner.
“Let up on the big rock-buster, Shorty,” he called. “John Law has donetook chips in the game.”
Tad’s words had much the same effect as a bucket of ice water thrownon a couple of fighting dogs. Shorty got to his feet, felt of adiscolored and partially closed eye, and reached for papers andtoba