They found Ben Dillon and Breezy eating their supper; so they sat down at the same table. The sheriff masticated rapidly for several moments, his eyes on Hashknife. Then:
“Hartley, I’d like to have yuh tell me what that telegram meant. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ folks use my name on telegrams, the same of which I don’t know anythin’ about. The darn thing don’t make sense. You ain’t never showed me jist who yuh are, and—well, what about it?”
Hashknife smiled across the table at the sheriff, who grunted audibly, but waited for Hashknife to speak.
“I’ll pay for the telegram,” said Hashknife.
“That part don’t interest me none; I want to know what it was all about.”
Hashknife did not smile now. He looked at the sheriff with his level gray eyes, as he said softly: “I can’t tell yuh now, sheriff. Too many cooks always spoil the broth.”
“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Well, you got a nerve, Hartley. Oh, it’s O.K. with me if all this is on the square.”
“It’s all right, I give you my word.”
Baggs had talked to the sheriff, telling him that he was firing the crew at the Box S, and saying that he might have some trouble over it.
“Kinda tough,” agreed Breezy, digging away at a tough steak with a dull knife. “Len’s got the kid to look after, too. Mebby he’ll rent the Prentice house and start housekeepin’. Be funny if he did, wouldn’t it?”