CHAPTER II

The Rashness of Shorty

Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people
were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel
a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet-a
condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were
switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear.
Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other
four, a Double Arrow.

In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking out of the dirty window
up the street at Cowan's saloon. Shorty was complaining, "They shore
oughter be here now. They rounded up last week." The man nearest
assured him that they would come. The man at the window turned and
said, "They's yer now.




In front of Cowan's a crowd of nine happy-go-lucky, daredevil
riders were sliding from their saddles. They threw their reins over
the heads of their mounts and filed in to the bar. Laughter issued
from the open door and the clink of glasses could be heard. They stood
in picturesque groups, strong, self-reliant, humorous, virile. Their
expensive sombreros were pushed far back on their heads and their
hairy chaps were covered with the alkali dust from their ride.