"Th' wall-eyed piruts," he muttered, and then scratched his head for
a way to "play hunk." As he gazed sorrowfully at the saloon he heard a
snicker from behind him. He, thinking it was one of his late tormentors,
paid no attention to it. Then a cynical, biting laugh stung him. He
wheeled, to see Shorty leaning against a tree, a sneering leer on his
flushed face. Shorty's right hand was suspended above his holster,
hooked to his belt by the thumb--a favorite position of his when
expecting trouble.

"One of yore reg'lar habits?" he drawled.

Jimmy began to dust himself in silence, but his lips were compressed to
a thin white line.

"Does they hurt yu?" pursued the onlooker.

Jimmy looked up. "I heard tell that they make glue outen cayuses,
sometimes," he remarked.

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 suggested.
Johnny and Billy carried him in the saloon and placed him by the table,
in the chair he had previously vacated. As they stood up he fell across
the table and died.

Billy placed the dead boy's sombrero on his head and laid the refractory
six-sh