Spacepaw Read Free Page B

other outlaws.
    “Why, naturally,” said Bill, “there’s six or seven of you and only one of me. If it wasn’t for that—”
    “Hey, what’s up?” boomed a new voice, interrupting him. Bill raised his eyes to look beyond the outlaw group and the outlaws themselves turned about to stare. Strolling out of the woods was the tallest, leanest Dilbian Bill had seen so far. He was unarmed, but he was as much taller than the general height of the sword-bearing outlaws as they were taller than Thing-or-Two, and his fur was a light, rusty-brown in color.
    “Some of your business, Uplander?” growled the outlaw leader.
    “Why, not if you say it’s not,” responded the newcomer genially, strolling up to the group. “But you look like you got something cornered up in Tin Ear’s roof, there, and—”
    “It’s a Shorty,” growled the outlaw leader, turning to look once more at Bill, and apparently accepting the newcomer without further protest. “He’s got up in there and if you try climbing up, holding on with your finger and toenails, he shoves you off. And he just sits up there laughing at us.”
    “That a fact?” said the tall Dilbian. “Well, I know how I’d get him out of there.”
    “You?” snorted he leader. “Who says you could get him down if we can’t?”
    “Why, because I wouldn’t have to climb,” said the tall Dilbian, easily. “You see, I’m just a hair or two bigger than the rest of you. Want me to try?”
    “You can try for all I care,” grumbled the leader, and the rest of the outlaws muttered agreement. On the ground, Tin Ear was beginning to sit up and look about himself, somewhat dazedly. “But it won’t do any good.”
    “Think so?” said the tall Dilbian, unruffled. “Let me just take a little look, first.” He moved to directly below Bill’s bolthole. “Look out up there, Shorty—here I come!”
    With these last words he crouched suddenly, then sprang, flinging up his unbelievably long arms at the same instant. Bill ducked back from the entrance, instinctively, as with a thud, ten powerful, furry fingers appeared, hooked over the bottom log of his entrance. A second later and the face of the newcomer rose to stare in interestedly at him.
    Still holding himself by his grip on the entrance, the tall Dilbian performed the further muscular feat of sticking his head partway into the hole. Bill braced himself to resist capture. But, astonishingly, what came from the intruder was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
    “Listen! You’re the Pick-and-Shovel Shorty?”
    “Well—uh,” Bill whispered back, confused. “My Shorty name’s actually Bill Waltham, but they warned me I’d be given—”
    “Sure!” whispered the Dilbian impatiently. “That’s what I said. You’re Pick-and-Shovel. Now, listen. I’m going to get them to back off. When they do, you take a leap out of there, and I’ll get you away from them. Understand?”
    “Yes, but—”
    Bill found himself talking to empty air. A thud from the ground outside signaled that his interviewer had dropped to earth. Bill crept forward and looked out. Below him, the tall Dilbian was muttering to a close huddle of the outlaws, all of them with their heads down. Apparently the muttering was supposed to be confidential, but the words of it came clearly to Bill’s ears.
    “… You got to be tricky with these Shorties,” the tall Dilbian was saying. “Now, I told him I’d talk you all into going away and leaving him alone. So the rest of you go hide around the corners of the building, and when he climbs down, I’ll get between him and the corner of the house here, and the rest of you can run out and catch him. Got it?”
    The outlaws muttered gleeful agreement. Heads were lifted.
    “Well,” yawned the outlaw leader, in a loud voice, pointedly not looking up in Bill’s direction, “guess we better be moseying along back to the valley. Let’s go, men.”
    All pretending elaborate unconcern, the outlaws wandered off