Sleepy analysed nothing. He was the man Friday, supreme in his confidence in Hashknife’s ability, following along, never knowing just when they might strike the end of the trail; but always ready to back Hashknife with a smoking gun or the weight of his two hard fists.
It had not been a remunerative partnership. They were poorer in pocket than the day they had ridden away together. They did not ask for pay—did not wait for it. The job was the thing.
And there had been many mighty hard jobs. Death had ridden knee to knee with them many times; struck at them from beside the bushy trail, lashed out of the darkness, darted out at them from a pall of powder smoke; but still it fell short.
Their life had made them confirmed fatalists. Perhaps that and their sense of humour carried them on. Neither of them was a split-second gunman. At times they marvelled at their luck, which left them unscathed while gunmen went down, leaving them to carry on.
“Some day there won’t be no other side of the hill,” Sleepy had predicted.
“It comes to every man,” Hashknife had agreed. “But if we’re lucky we’ll get high enough up to peek over the top.”
It was nearly supper time when Len and Sailor rode in. Len seemed pleased to find Hashknife and Sleepy there.
“I was wonderin’ if you’d left the country,” he told them.
“We don’t move very fast,” grinned Hashknife. “Miss Singer invited us to supper, so we decided to stay.”
“I’m shore glad she did.”