Part 1

ADVENTURE

July 10, 1925

Vol. LIII, No. IIII

PAID OFF

A Complete Novelette

By

Walter J. Coburn

Author of “The Grub Line,” “Deuce High,” etc.

I

“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?”

“Yuh mean tuh say yuh never heerd tell uh Fox?”

“We’re plumb strangers, mister. Let’s have it. Both barrels.”

“He couldn’t help hearin’ them remarks,” mumbled the sheriff, musing aloud. “Hmmm. ——’s tuh pay all around.”

“But you was goin’ to tell us about this Fox,” hinted Tad.

“Was I? I reckon not. I don’t talk to nobody about that gent.”

The sheriff’s tone was decisive.

Tad, glancing covertly at the old sheriff, caught a glimpse of tightly clamped jaws. Beneath shaggy white brows, the sheriff’s keen eyes smoldered with some inner fire. It was a dogged, sullen look, strangely out of keeping with the general make up of the grizzled law officer.

“Yuh don’t mean tuh say that ole scarecrow has yuh buffaloed?” put in Shorty, wincing as Tad’s spur raked his shin with meaning vigor.

The sheriff turned on Shorty, eyes ablaze with hot resentment.

“Who said I was scared? Whoever told yuh that, lied. Lied, hear me?”

The sheriff fairly trembled with fury. He seemed about to hit Shorty with the .45 in his hand.

Tad, poised easily on the balls of his feet, clenched his big fist and his practised eye picked the point where the well-placed blow would put the sheriff to sleep. There was a look of resignation in the big puncher’s eyes.

Then the sheriff, with an effort, regained control of himself and turned from Shorty. Tad gave a sigh of relief. Striking an officer, even in defense of his partner, was little to his liking.

The trio moved on in silence for some moments. Tad, meeting Shorty’s eyes, gave his little partner a ferocious look. Shorty squirmed uneasily.

“I’m askin’ yore pardon, Sheriff,” he said meekly. “I was jest tryin’ tuh be funny. It was a fool crack to make and I’m plumb sorry.”

His tone was sincere. The sheriff nodded his silent acceptance of the apology.

“I reckon it’s shore gally uh me tuh be askin’ ary favors, Sheriff,” Shorty put in as they halted before the padlocked door of the log jail, “but would yuh kinda look after our hosses while me and Tad is penned up?”

“Uh course,” agreed the sheriff. “Yore hosses will be took care of. Yuh won’t be needin’ ’em where yo’re goin’. Better sell ’em tuh git lawyer money.”

“Is it goin’ tuh be that bad?” asked Tad seriously.

“Wuss,” came the cryptic reply, and the two prisoners heard the click of the padlock as the sheriff locked them in.

In dejected silence, the two listened to the receding tinkle of the sheriff’s spurs.

“Well, my short-complected _amigo_, yuh shore done us proud this day,” Tad broke the silence. “You and that hair-trigger temper uh yourn kin shore git us into more trouble than ten judges and a herd uh law sharps kin git us outa. Yuh mighta put off the show till after we’d grazed some. I’m ga’ant as a dogie in the spring follerin’ a hard winter.”

“And if I hadn’t took it up when that box-ankled shovel swinger insulted us, we’d uh bin run outa town for a coupla uh sheepherders. You was doin’ a heap uh yellin’ and so on, fer a gent that hates fightin’. It was you that busted that purty, shiny window by th’owin’ that drink mixer through it. Yuh mighta slung him out the door, jest as easy, but no, yuh had tuh go bustin’ things. That glass’ll set us back the price of ten good drunks and a reasonable fine. Got ary terbaccer tuh go with this here brown paper, Ox?”

Tad handed over a thin sack with a pinch of tobacco in the bottom.

“Gimme butts on ’er, runt. It’s the tailin’s uh the last sack uh what was once a full caddy uh smokin. Fer which yo’re still owin’ me for yore half uh the price. Say, what ails that sheriff, I wonder? He like tuh busted a ham-string when yuh joshed him about that Fox feller. Shorty, there’s somethin’ danged queer about the whole deal. Raisin’ a li’l’ ol’ ruckus in yonder saloon ain’t no penitentiary offense. The way that ol’ sheriff took on, a man’d thought we’d killed a few folks. Is them bars yonder solid?”

“Solid as rocks, Tad. Even if they was loose, we bin on short grazin’ so long that we’re too weak to pry ’em loose. If the paint hoss hadn’t got drowned crossin’ the Missouri and our beds and grub got lost, we’d uh bin to the Wyomin’ line by now.”

“And if you and that overworked temper uh yourn hadn’t broke out and run hog wild yesterday, we’d uh got a square meal and a job with that outfit we struck at noon.”

“Work fer that spread after that black-muzzled wagon-boss asked me was I expectin’ boy’s wages and could I hold down a hoss wrangler’s job! I wisht yuh had let me finish workin’ that smart Aleck over, Ox. I was jest gettin’ my second wind when yuh drug me off him.”

“Say!”

“Huh?” Shorty, startled by the vehemence of his partner’s exclamation, turned from his inspection of the bars across the one window. “What bit yuh?”

“I was jest rememberin’ that black-whiskered gent’s talk. Yuh mind, Shorty? He says to us that Luther Fox don’t pay out good money to undersized gents that can’t do a man’s work.”

“Man’s work! I showed him what a man——”

“Dry up. Fergit it. Yuh don’t foller my meanin’. Luther Fox must own that cow outfit that Black Whiskers works for. _Sabe?_”

“Uh-huh. And supposin’ he does? What of it? Go on from there, big ’un, and let’s see if yore words makes sense.”

“Well, from where I was settin’, that round-up looked like a big spread. They was holdin’ a herd that a man couldn’t shoot across. Looked like three hundred head uh hosses in their _remuda_. If this Fox feller owns that outfit, he’s one danged big cowman, and son, we shore set into a hard game if we’ve hurt the ol’ rannyhan’s feelin’s. I don’t like the lay uh the land, Shorty; None whatsomever.

“If that ol’ wolf sets his mind to it, our hides’ll be hangin’ on the fence afore mornin’. Yeah. And if him and his black-muzzled wagon boss ever gits tuh makin’ medicine and the black gent ’lows we’re the same parties that rode into his camp and raised a ruckus, me and you is due tuh stretch some rope.”

“That big bohunk of a quartz wrangler’ll be rearin’ tuh work in the lead uh sech a necktie party, too,” was Shorty’s wry comment. “What’ll we do, Taddie? Shucks, I hates tuh stay bogged down here till they come tuh hang us. I don’t have no —— of a lot uh confidence in that ol’ sheriff feller, if it comes to a fight.”

“Yuh might uh done some heavy thinkin’ along them lines afore yuh got us into all this, yuh fire-swallerin’ li’l’ ol’ rooster. Now gimme butts on that smoke so’s I kin smudge some thoughts outa my brain.”

II

“‘Way up high in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops, A lion cleaned a yearlin’s bones and licked his thankful chops; When who upon the scene should ride, a trippin’ down the slope, But High-Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.’”

Shorty’s voice, loud and high pitched, filled the small cabin. For once, Tad found no fault with his partner’s singing. This, because the sound of the singer’s voice drowned out what noise Tad might be making as he whittled doggedly at the pine log wherein the iron bars of the window were embedded.

Shorty, eyes fixed on the heavy pine door, sang with the air of one who does his duty in the face of great obstacles. Without missing a note, he gathered in a handful of whittlings and shoved the shavings under his hat, which lay on the floor. Then his toe poked Tad’s shin with none too gentle contact and the whittling ceased. Shorty, resuming his seat on the edge of the bunk, sang on, head tilted upward, eyes half closed.

Thus the sheriff found them when he entered, bearing a heavily laden tray.

They looked innocent enough, these two. Shorty, reclining on the bunk, Tad gazing broodingly out between the rusty bars in an attitude of silent dejection.

“Ten o’clock breakfast, Taddie.” Shorty thus broke off his song. “Come and git it er I th’ow it away! Gosh a’mighty, Tad, it’s real grub! Steak and ’taters and pie! Sheriff, yo’re a plumb white man!”

The sheriff grinned and set the tray on the table. The grin gave the old officer an almost benign appearance.

“Have at it cowboys, afore she gits cold. It’s the best I could rustle at the Chink’s place. Yuh earned it, both uh yuh. My hat’s off tuh ary two gents that kin clean up Alder Gulch on empty bellies and with empty guns.”

“Yuh ain’t holdin’ no hard feelin’s?”

“Not me. Joe Kipp ain’t that kind. Personal, it done me good tuh see that big miner whupped. That —— bartender had it comin’ too.”

“Gosh!”

Tad swallowed a mouthful of food, washed it down with a swallow of coffee and eyed the sheriff in mild surprise.

“’Pears tuh me like you’d had a sudden change uh mind, Sheriff. Yuh acted plumb ringy when yuh nabbed us.”

“Folks was watchin’. The bartender had swore out a complaint and with Fox a-watchin’, I had tuh go through.”

“Yuh mean this Luther Fox gent is after yore taw? He’s rearin’ tuh jump yore frame?”

“Somethin’ like that. Him and me don’t waste no soft-spoke love words on one another.”

He paused, scowling at the floor as if worrying out some problem.

“There’s more than a few gents on this range that’ll tell yuh I’m scared uh Luther Fox and ‘Black Jack’,” he finished.

“Black Jack?”

“Fox’s wagon boss. Runs the LF spread.”

Tad and Shorty exchanged grins. “Black-whiskered gent? Eyes like a Injun?”

Kipp nodded.

“You boys know him?”

“We come by the LF round-up. Yeah, we know him tuh look at.”

“Ain’t yuh the boys from the south?” inquired Kipp. “I see yuh both ride double-rigged saddles and yore hosses pack strange brands.”

“We’re from Texas fust, Arizona after barb wire run us outa our home range. We come tuh Montana tuh close a deal that was hangin’ fire. Wound up our deal and was headin’ fer our home range when we loses our life’s gatherin’s in yore Missouri River. Pack hoss, bed, money, grub, the hull works goes. Shorty’s paint hoss which we’re packin’ makes a shore game fight, but ’twan’t no go. The undercurrent ketches him and he goes under and don’t come up no more.

“I’d uh gone the same way only fer Shorty. Yuh see, me’n my yaller hammer hoss bein’ brung up in a windmill country, we ain’t neither of us used tuh water in sech big doses. Mebbeso I got Yaller’s cinch too tight er he gits water in his ears er suthin’. Anyways, he goes belly-up in the middle uh the crick and fer a spell it looks like me’n him’s a-headin’ fast fer the Big Range.

“I’m a thinkin’ along them lines, as the feller says, when Shorty on his Skewball pony, bustin’ that water like a side gougin’ steamboat, jest nacherally ropes me, takes his winds and yanks me ashore. Yaller drifts to a sand bar and wades out while Shorty bails the mud and water outa me. Drunk er sober, my Shorty pard ain’t much tuh look at, but there’s times when he shows good p’ints.”

“Shucks, Sheriff, don’t pay no mind tuh Tad,” grinned the self-concious Shorty. “He shore likes the sound uh his own voice. If yuh was tuh th’ow him and mouth him, yuh’d find his front teeth plumb wore down. That comes from his havin’ his mouth open fer talkin’ so much. The wind, a-blowin’ to and fro across his teeth, consequential, has wore ’em down.”

The sheriff was beginning to like these two oddly mated partners thoroughly. He moved across the floor to a chair. As he did so, he accidentally moved Shorty’s hat, revealing the pile of whittlings. Shorty manfully stepped into the breach.

Before the sheriff noticed, the little puncher had grabbed the handful of shavings and shoved them into his mouth.

“Now swaller,” whispered Tad in an undertone, as he dropped his neckscarf on the sill to cover the freshly whittled notch at the base of the steel bar.

Shorty swallowed, choked, gasped and his tanned face grew purple.

Tad, moving swiftly, promptly up-ended Shorty, thumping him on the back with an unconcern that hinted of boredom. A wad of mashed potatoes, well wadded with shavings, spewed forth and Tad promptly kicked the sodden mass under the bunk.

“Will yuh hand me the water pitcher, Sheriff? Thanks. Now irrigate, runt.”

He held the pitcher to Shorty’s mouth and poured a generous potion down the little puncher’s throat. Then, with a paternal air, he sat Shorty on the edge of the bunk and loosened his collar.

“Ain’t I told yuh, time and again, not tuh swaller yore grub whole, little ’un? Dang me if I can see how yuh ever growed up without chokin’ tuh death.”

Tad turned to the sheriff with an apologetic grin.

“In spite uh all I tell him, that li’l’ varmint will wolf his grub. It ain’t the fust time he’s choked down on me thataway. Onct, at a ice-cream sociable down on the Gila, a brockle-faced school marm, a-ketch-in’ him off his guard with a face full uh cake, ast him was his hair nacherally curly afore it slipped and left him bald between the horns. I’m out in the kitchen when the play comes up and he like tuh perished complete afore I gits there. The fiddler, a-thinkin’ the li’l’ cuss had th’owed a fit, empties a pailful uh pink lemonade on him. I tips him upside down, knocks the hunk uh cake loose from where it’s lodged between his buck teeth and his briskit, and the show is over. We spends a good half-hour huntin’ the loose change which drops outa his pocket durin’ the proceedin’s. I bin thinkin’ serious uh knockin’ his teeth out so’s he’d have tuh graze on mush and sech light truck.”

“Aw, let a man be, Ox,” grinned Shorty, buttering his fourth biscuit. “If yuh gotta run off at the head, tell about the time that Hash-Knife hoss crow hopped with yuh and yore set uh store teeth swapped ends and like tuh bit yore tongue off. Only for the hoss a-pilin’ yuh into the sourdough pan, you’d uh gone through life without a tongue. Yuh mind, Taddie, how that kettle-paunched ol’ cook run yuh outa camp fer sp’ilin’ his batch uh bread dough? He’d uh whittled yuh down tuh his size and whupped yuh, too, only I tripped him up. There’s times when I wisht I’d let that ol’ grub sp’iler ketch yuh.”

A shadow passed the window. The grin on Kipp’s face vanished.

“Here comes Fox,” he whispered. “Play yore cards keerful, boys. Yuh whupped the best man he has in camp, Shorty. And he’s done heard how Tad stood off his gang uh tough men with a empty gun. Down in that black heart uh hisn, he respects nerve like yourn. He may put yuh some kind of a proposition. Better consider keerful afore yuh turn it down.

“He’s got yuh in a tight. He owns that saloon and the busted window. Fact is, he owns the camp. Reckon I’d better let him in now. He’s poundin’ out yonder fit tuh bust the door down.”

With a faint, uneasy smile, Kipp rose and unbolted the heavy door.

Luther Fox entered with one long stride. His gimlet eyes were fixed on the remains of the prisoner’s sumptuous dinner.

“Fancy victuals that you give your prisoners, Kipp,” he spoke in a rasping, flat voice. “County payin’ for such grub?” Kipp’s eyes took on a chilly look.

“I paid the chink outa my own pocket, Fox.”

Luther Fox’s thin lips twitched at the corners. It may have been meant for a smile. Devoid of mirth, it seemed to accentuate the cruelty that lurked behind the pale-gray eyes.

“I want that I should be left alone with these two men, Kipp. Clear out.”

It was the command of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.

Tad, watching Kipp closely, saw the sheriff’s mouth tighten so as to leave the lips a bloodless, crooked line. For a long moment the officer and the cow man held each other’s gaze.

“Fox,” said Kipp, measuring his words with deliberate slowness, “I’m sheriff here. This jail is county property. I leave here when I get —— ready. If yo’re aimin’ tuh smell powder smoke, go fer yore gun.”

Fox’s upper lip lifted, revealing long, crooked, yellow teeth. They made the man hideous. His long fingers patted the butt of an ivory-handled .45 that swung in a tied holster, low down on his thigh.

“Whenever I pull my gun, Kipp, this county will be in line for a new sheriff. However, it’s bad luck to kill an officer of the law. Our quarrel will keep without spoilin’. I’ll word my wishes differently. I’d like a few minutes pow-wow with your prisoners, Sheriff Kipp. Will you be so kind as to grant so great a favor?”

His long frame bent at the waistline in a mocking bow. Rumor had it that Luther Fox, in his youth, had been a New England schoolmaster. Like rust corroding a steel blade, frontier contact had well nigh obliterated the polish that belonged to that former life. Occasionally it was visible, usually in the form of sarcasm.

Kipp, with a visible effort, fought down the hot rage that surged up inside him. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. Without a backward glance he closed the door behind him.

* * * * *

Inside the jail, Tad and Shorty looked up with curious gaze at Fox and waited for him to break the silence that followed Kipp’s departure. Fox’s lips were again twitching at the corners. Otherwise, his expression did not change.

“Well, what have you two got to say for yourselves?” he asked finally.

Long legs far apart, bony fingers twisting in a knot behind his back, he glanced coldly at the two punchers.

“It don’t look to me like it was our ante,” Tad grinned easily. “The sheriff tells us yo’re holdin’ the joker.”

“Exactly. The way the play stands, I can either make or break you two.”

He paused.

“Spread yore cards, mister.”