THE SHYNESS OF SHORTY

Bailey smoked morosely as he scanned the dusty trail leading down
across the "bottom" and away over the dry grey prairie toward the
hazy mountains in the west.

From his back-tilted chair on the veranda, the road was visible for
miles, as well as the river trail from the south, sneaking up through
the cottonwoods and leprous sycamores.

He called gruffly into the silence of the house, and his speech held
the surliness of his attitude.

"Hot Joy! Bar X outfit comin'. Git supper."

A Chinaman appeared in the door and gazed at the six-mule team
descending the distant gully to the ford.

"Jesse one man, hey? All light," and slid quietly back to the
kitchen.

Whatever might be said, or, rather, whatever might be suspected, of
Bailey's road-house--for people did not run to wordy conjecture in
this country--it was known that it boasted a good cook, and this
atoned for a catalogue of shortcomings. So it waxed popular among
the hands of the big cattle ranges near-bye. Those given to idle