“Sleepy,” seriously, “what do yuh reckon they’re shootin’ at me for?”
“That question can’t be answered. And if we stick around here much longer it never will—by us.”
But Hashknife made no move to leave Lobo Wells. For the next couple of days he stayed close to town, waiting for his wounds to heal and being sure not to acquire any fresh ones.
Out at the Box S, Nan’s ankle was nearly well again. Much of the arguing between Whispering and Sailor had ceased, because Larry was cutting the wood, much to the amusement of everybody. His ideas of measurements were rather flexible, and at times Whispering was obliged to take the wood back and cut it again; but never when Larry might be aware of it.
Came Saturday night and Sailor rode to Lobo Wells with Len. Whispering had been complaining about rheumatism for days, so he decided to stay at the ranch. Nan had completely recovered the use of her ankle. She had heard no more from Amos Baggs, but she realised that there was no more to hear. He had delivered his ultimatum, but had been kind enough to allow her this extra time.
Little Larry went to bed early, thoroughly tired. Whispering was down in the bunk-house, either in bed or deep in a game of solitaire. Nan was reading in the living-room when she heard a noise on the porch. As she lowered her book the door opened softly and in came Amos Baggs and Jack Pollock, the gambler.
“We saw you through the window,” said Baggs softly, “so we didn’t bother to knock.”
Pollock was looking at her with a curious smile.
“Some difference between a hall bedroom in a Frisco rooming house and ownership of a ranch like this,” he said. “Kid, I’ll give you credit; you’ve got plenty of nerve. Too bad you didn’t get away with it.”
Nan did not answer him. Baggs came up to the table and removed some papers from his pocket, which he spread on the table at her elbow. He took out a fountain pen and handed it to her.