“Miss Singer,—I want to have a talk with you, so you’d better come to my office at once. It will be decidedly to your interests not to ignore this letter.
“Very truly yours,
“Amos Baggs.”
Hashknife put the letter back in the envelope and sealed it securely, after which he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, deep in thought. It was rather a queer letter, he thought. A threatening order from a lawyer to a client.
Hashknife was puzzled. He did not believe that Len Ayres had killed Charley Prentice, although there was no evidence that any one else disliked him enough to do it. And Hashknife hadn’t the slightest idea who had shot at him. He was satisfied that he had been the target, instead of Baggs. The underlying motives were well concealed, but Hashknife felt that somewhere he would dig up a key to the mystery.
He found Sleepy and together they rode out to the Box S. Sailor was sound asleep in the bunk-house, and Whispering was outspoken in his disgust of any man who would get drunk in the morning.
“He tried to tell us somethin’ about Baggs gittin’ killed,” said Whispering. “Was that right?”
Hashknife explained what had happened, and Whispering was duly impressed.
“Lobo Wells is wakin’ up to what it needs,” he said seriously. “I don’t back no murderer’s play, but I do think the town needs cleanin’ up, Hartley. Len’s gone over to the OK this mornin’. Knight wants us to go in with him on a trainload of beef; so Len went to talk with him. The boss is somewhere in the house, if yuh want to see her.”
Hashknife gave Whispering his two letters, and explained about Sailor losing the mail.
“That’s jist like him! Valuables don’t mean nothin’ to him, when he gits a drink or two. Look at these letters! ’F it hadn’t been for you they’d be lost, and I’d never know how to cure liver complaints and as-my.”
Nan came out through the kitchen and greeted them warmly.