“Bill Sheffield was ten times the man you’ll ever be,” Conn said.
This made Toole laugh. “You’re a sassy one, aren’t you? I got half a mind to have some fun with you.”
“Let’s tie him up and cut his tongue out,” Duncan proposed, that weird light burning in his eyes again.
“Pipe down, Duncan. I’m not talking about that. I’m saying I got half a mind to put the knuckles to him like I did his brother.”
“You mean tie him up and beat him like you did the other?” Duncan chuckled. “That was good. I got a few licks in myself.”
Conn struggled against his anger. He’d known they had beaten his brother half to death before hanging him, and now they were laughing about it.
But he also sensed Toole toeing a line here, standing right at the brink of that mistake Conn had hoped he might make.
“I wouldn’t need him to be tied,” Toole said.
“Maybe,” Duncan said doubtfully, “but why risk it? He’s a biggun, Henry. And tall, too.”
Dog nodded in agreement. “Tall.”
Toole’s eyes flashed with rage. “Who cares how tall he is?” he snapped. “I’m twice the man he is!”
And suddenly, Conn understood.
He’d seen men like this before. When you’re tall, you cross their paths and learn to watch out for them.
A small percentage of short men hate anyone taller than them. And the taller you are, the more they hate you.
They see others’ height as an offense to their lack of stature and feel the need to start a fight with the tallest man in the saloon.
Conn had dealt with it a few times as a kid, then a few times more drifting from place to place as an adult.
It had always been a hassle.
But now, suddenly, he knew it was his only possible lifeline. So he gave a good tug.
“Better listen to them, Henry,” Conn said with a grin. “Little fella like you wouldn’t stand a chance against a tall man like me. I mean, I’m a real man, and it’s like you never grew up. It wouldn’t even be fair. Be like me fighting a little kid.”
He scored a direct hit.
Toole screeched with anger, and for just a second, Conn thought maybe he’d pushed too hard and the man was going to unload the six-shooter into his guts.
But then Toole shoved the six-shooter into his holster and unbuckled the gunbelt and handed it to Duncan, who giggled, still holding the rope tight.
“Want me to lift him up on his tiptoes?” Duncan said.
“No!” Toole shouted, his scarred face crimson with rage. “Let it go slack.”
“Slack?” Duncan said. “He might slip out.”
“You heard me,” Toole said and cracked his knuckles. “Go on, Sullivan. Slip free there, big talker. Dog, you keep that pistol trained on him. He tries anything funny, pulls a knife or something, plug him low down, you hear me?”
Dog nodded, pointing the gun at Conn, who dipped his head, freeing his neck from the dreaded rope.
Toole shuffled forward and raised his fists like a boxer. “Now, you’re mincemeat, Sullivan. I was a prize fighter. I whipped the American champion. They didn’t give me the title, but everyone knew I whipped him.”
“Sure you did,” Conn laughed. He’d never been a boxer, but he’d been in a lot of fights, and he knew the best fighters stayed calm. Anger made them stupid. “Come to think of it, I beat him, too. Twice!”
Toole came rushing forward, just as Conn had hoped he would.
