“Donna all right?”
“Yes.”
“Who's the feller that interfered?”
“Stranger ridin' through.”
“Hard hit?”
“Right lung. He'll pull through.”
“Hope so” responded the amiable yardmaster, and left. Mr. Hennage got back into bed and pulled the sheet over him again. But it was too hot to sleep, so he lay there, rubbing his chin and thinking. Late in the afternoon he heard the sound of a horse loping through the street beneath his window. He sprang up and looked out, just in time to see Borax O'Rourke riding out of town on Bob McGraw's roan bronco.
Mr. Hennage permitted himself a quiet little smile. “Now there goes the star witness for the prosecution” he mused. “But I'll stay an' tell 'em Borax was mistaken. I guess, even if I ain't a gentleman, I can lie like one.”
He bathed and dressed and started over to the post-office—not because he expected any mail, for he did not. No one ever wrote to Mr. Hennage. But he had seen Mrs. Pennycook dodging into the post-office, and it was his intention to have a quiet little conversation with the lady.
When he arrived at the post-office, however, Mrs. Pennycook was not in sight. Mr. Hennage stepped lightly inside, and at that moment he heard Miss Molly Pickett, the postmistress, exclaim: “Well, for the land's sake!”