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To Shoop's genial wave of farewell they returned a whoop that seemed edged with a vague challenge. Pat, who was watching them, asked Shoop who the man was riding the pinto. "Why, that's High-Chin Bob Brewster, Starr fo'man. He's kind of a wild bird. I reckon he came over here lookin' for trouble. He's been walkin' around with his wings and tail spread like he was mad at somethin'."
"He isn't bothering. I know what he wants." And she ran to the kitchen. Shoop's face grew grave. "I didn't want to scare the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry's father Jim Waring has been shot up bad over to Criswell. He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. I reckon he got 'em but I ain't heard." "Adams's father!" "Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. I'll tell you later.
That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous." The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from the office with Bondsman at his heels. There was something humorous, almost pathetic, in the gaunt and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. And Shoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped slightly and the set stride as he plodded here and there, often made the clerk smile.
Bud Shoop's assets in the game of life amounted to a few acres of mesa land, a worn outfit of saddlery, and a small bank account. But his greatest asset, of which he was blissfully unconscious, was a big, homely love for things human and for animals; a love that set him apart from his fellows who looked upon men and horses and dogs as merely useful or otherwise. The Horse Trade
High Chin was known as a quick and sure shot. Shoop's reputation was known to fewer of the crowd. The Starr boys backed their foreman to the last cent. A judge was suggested, but declined as being of the locality. Finally the giant sheepman, despite his personal wager, was elected unanimously. He was known to be a man of absolute fairness, and qualified to judge marksmanship.
Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as though from a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry visualized the theme, forgetting where he was in the vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketched in the rough dialect of the range. "I've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough to keep me awake nights," said Shoop, pushing back his hat.
And before you go I just want to pass the word that young Adams is workin' for me. Reckon you might be interested, seein' as how he worked for you a spell." High Chin met Shoop's gaze unblinkingly. He was about to speak when Pat and Waring, rode up and greeted the supervisor. High Chin wheeled his horse and loped back to town. A few minutes later he and his men rode past.
Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was coming, and Shoop decided to surprise the assemblage. The main issue was not the shooting contest, and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen enough of Shoop's work to satisfy him, the genial Bud intended to clinch the matter right there. Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans into the air. Shoop and High Chin shot on the instant.
Shoop labored at the piano with nervous care. When he turned to Lorry his face was beaded with sweat. "I rode her clean through to the fence," he said, with a kind of apologetic grin. "How did you like that piece?" "I always did like them old tunes," replied Lorry. "Give us another." Shoop's face beamed. "I only got one more that I can get my rope on. But if you can stand it, I can.
From Shoop's talk with Kennedy, the lawyer, it was evident that Loring had his eye on the deserted ranch. Far down the track he saw a glimmering dot of fire and heard the faint muffled whistle of the Flyer. "All right, Bud. I'll get the tickets. Get our coats. We can just make it." When they stepped from the Flyer at Usher, the faint light of dawn was edging the eastern hills.
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