“Oh, his face is kinda sore, I guess.”
“Yea-a-ah? Did he tell about me slappin’ him?”
“I don’t think he did,” grinned Hashknife, and told Len how Baggs had ordered him out of the office.
“Kinda funny about somebody shootin’ at Baggs, Hartley.”
“Wasn’t it? I wonder who it was.”
Len shook his head, tested the buckle and laid the bridle aside. He rolled a smoke and leaned back against the wall, the aroma of his cigarette mingling with the pungent odours of the stable. Moths skittered around the lantern, a horse stamped uneasily.
“You came out alone?” asked Len.
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I wanted to talk with you, Ayres.”
“Thasso?” curiously. “Talk about what, Hartley?”
“About you.”