“Of all the snake trails I ever follered, this is the worst,” he told himself. “What’s it all about, anyway? There’s one cinch bet, and that is that somebody around here is scared of me, and I don’t know what for.”
He reviewed the killing of Charley Prentice, who had been sober and industrious until Len Ayres came back. What was Prentice afraid of, he wondered? Was it because he had married Len’s ex-wife? Did he fear Len’s wrath so much that he drank himself to a physical wreck?
The evidence of little Larry would indicate that the man or men who killed Prentice wanted to throw the blame on Len. And would they commit murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable, Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might talk.
For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he forgotten that it was past supper time.
Hashknife got up and washed his face in the cracked porcelain bowl. He placed his sombrero atop his bandages and did a few clumsy dance steps on the creaking floor, after which he sang softly:
“When my engine roars down through the cut,
I’ll tell yuh what to do:
If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;
If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”
Sleepy looked at him curiously. It was not often that Hashknife sang a song—for which Sleepy was duly thankful, because Hashknife was not exactly a vocalist. But Sleepy knew that when Hashknife sang, even a short part of a verse, it was because he had solved something.
“What do yuh know?” asked Sleepy curiously.
Hashknife grinned softly and looked at himself in the old mirror.
“I know it’s time to eat, cowboy. Glad yuh reminded me.”