Shorty's eyes flashed. The loss of the horse had been rankling in
his heart all day.

"Does they git yu frequent?" he asked. His voice sounded hard.

"Oh, `bout as frequent as yu lose a cayuse, I reckon," replied Jimmy
hotly.

Shorty's hand streaked to his holster and Jimmy followed his lead.
Jimmy's Colt was caught. He had bucked too much. As he fell Shorty ran
for the Houston House.

Pistol shots were common, for they were the universal method of
expressing emotions. The poker players grinned, thinking their victim
was letting off his indignation. Lanky sized up his hand and remarked
half audibly, "He's a shore good kid."

The bartender, fearing for his new beveled, gilt-framed mirror, gave
a hasty glance out the window. He turned around, made change and
remarked to Buck, "Yore kid, Jimmy, is plugged." Several of the more
credulous craned their necks to see, Buck being the first. "Judas!" he
shouted, and ran out to where Jimmy lay coughing, his toes twitching.
The saloon was deserted and a crowd of angry cowboys surrounded their
chum-aboy. Buck had seen Shorty enter the door of the Houston House
and he swore. "Chase them C 80 and Arrow cayuses behind the saloon,
Pete, an' git under cover.

Jimmy was choking and he coughed up blood. "He's shore- got me. My-
gun stuck," he added apologetically. He tried to sit up, but was not
able and he looked surprised. "It's purty- damn hot-out here," he