“No, I didn’t, Hartley.”
“Heard Harmony Singer mention her?”
“Well, he never spoke about his relatives. Harmony was kinda close-mouthed, yuh know. He was originally from New Mexico, and I guess he was a heller in his time. Died with his boots on, hung to a stirrup. But if Heaven is a place for white men, he’s there.”
Whispering came down to the stable. He was rather surprised to find Hashknife there.
“Nan woke up,” he told Len. “Says the ankle hurts quite a lot. Sailor ain’t back yet, is he? He’ll prob’ly get drunk again.”
“Come on up to the house, Hartley,” invited Len.
“I think I’ll be headin’ back for town,” said Hashknife.
Len walked over to Hashknife’s horse with him, and they shook hands, before Hashknife mounted. It was very dark along the road to Lobo Wells, so Hashknife did not hurry. He pondered deeply over what Len had told him, trying to figure some angle on which to work. It meant going back five years, and in five years many small details are lost.
He travelled along the dusty, sandy road, the tall gray horse eating up distance with a swinging walk. Less than a mile out of Lobo Wells the road crossed Manzanita River on an old bridge, a narrow old structure, which creaked threateningly. The river here was mostly a big pot-hole below the bridge at this time of year, where a few old cottonwood stumps stuck their tops above the pool of dirty water.
Just before he reached the south end of the bridge, the gray shied slightly. Hashknife jerked up the reins quickly, but was unable to see anything in the gloom. He rode on to the bridge and went slowly across.