The shadow shooter

“Soapy” Weed’s voice began a deep bass, rising in a swift crescendo until it hit a note far above the range of anything below a soprano.

Soapy stood in the middle of the AH bunk-house, full in the light of two oil lamps. Balanced on the edge of a table was a packing-case which bore the imprint of a popular mail-order house and at his feet was a smaller case of the same kind.

Soapy’s stubby nose was beaded with perspiration and his blue eyes were filled with anxiety. He was of medium height, weighing possibly a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was of a sandy hue and just now it flared as though in a gale, attesting to the fact that Soapy had shortly emerged through the neck band of a white, stiff-bosom shirt, which was so new and so stiffly starched that the deed had only been accomplished by a supreme effort.

Over the shirt he wore a glaringly new checked suit, the sleeves of which came far above his wrists and the shoulders were far too narrow. Both hands clutched with a death grip on the waist-band of the checked trousers, which were inches and inches too large around the waist.

Seated on a bunk was “Cling” Heffner, a giant of a cowboy. He had been nicknamed “Clinging Vine,” but this had been shortened to plain “Cling.” He was slightly bald, square-faced, with a crooked nose and huge mouth surrounded at each end by deep grin wrinkles--like a gash in parenthesis.

He surveyed Soapy critically.

“Well--holee gee!” he breathed. “You don’t fit ’em, Soapy.”

“And is that all yuh can say?” asked Soapy wearily.

“It’s good-lookin’ cloth, Soapy. I never thought that there sample would ever make up--”

“Oh, damn the cloth! Look at this, will yuh?”

Soapy tried to cross his arms, but the effort was futile. And when he let loose of the waist-band his trousers fell to the floor. He leaned forward and glared at Cling, making no effort to recover the trousers.

“Yuh need suspenders, Soapy.”

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

Soapy kicked the offending trousers against the door of the bunk-house, and Cling grinned widely.

“You look like one of them there quail birds without any tail feathers, Soapy; honest yuh do.”

“Do I?” Soapy was sarcastic. He leaned against the table and glared at Cling. “You measured me for that suit, feller.”

[Illustration: “You measured me for that suit, feller, and yuh got them figures down wrong”]

“I follered directions.”

“You did, like hell! Here’s what yuh done. I wear a thirty-nine coat and a thirty-one waist-band. And dang you, Cling, yuh got them figures down on the wrong blanks. Thirty-one coat! My God, that wouldn’t fit a chickadee! And a horse ain’t over thirty-nine around the waist.”

“Some horses are, Soapy. Aw, don’t git hot. Lemme see them pants, will yuh? I can take a tuck in the rear. What’s eight inches, anyway? ’S far as that’s concerned, yuh can gather it up inside yore belt. I admit that the coat fits tight. Sa-a-ay! Eight inches will jist about make it. We’ll take eight inches out of them pants and set it between the shoulders of the coat. Git me a pair of shears and a needle.”

“Na-aa-a-aw! For God’s sake, Cling! You can’t do it. What do you know about sewin’? I’m ruined.”

“Howsa hat?” asked Cling.

Soapy groaned and lifted a pearl-colored fedora from the smaller case, gazing at it critically.

“Put her on, Soapy.”

Carefully and with both hands Soapy lifted up the hat and placed it atop his head, where it sat without visible means of support, except gravity.