“Well, I came here to git out of it,” laughed Breezy.
They walked down towards the livery stable, where Sleepy Stevens had gone to see that the stableman had taken good care of their horses, and found him near the wide front door. Hashknife introduced him to Breezy. Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder, with rather a blocky face, deeply lined with grin-wrinkles, and with wide, innocent-appearing blue eyes.
The raiment of both Hashknife and Sleepy were typical of the south-west ranges. Overalls tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots, thin, faded shirts, stringy vests, well-worn silk neckerchiefs and Stetson hats, more or less weathered. Both men wore holstered guns, sagging heavily from their belts, which had seen so much service that they fitted perfectly to the curve of hip and thigh.
There was nothing ornamental about their garments. Neither man was inclined to ornaments, and even their heavy Colt guns bore handmade plain wood handles.
As the three men and the boy were talking, Amos Baggs, driving a livery rig, turned his horse in through the open doorway. The Lobo Wells lawyer’s chin was set at a belligerent angle as his weak eyes glanced at the group at the doorway, but he did not speak until after he had turned the rig over to the stable keeper and came back to the doorway. He ignored Hashknife and Sleepy, speaking directly to Breezy, who seemed rather amused.
“I’ve been out to the Box S,” he told Breezy. “Went out to see Miss Singer, who is my client, as you know, Hill. She wasn’t there, and I was ordered off the place by Whispering Taylor and that other old skunk, Sailor Jones. They threatened me with a gun.”
“Ye-ah-ah?” drawled Breezy, evidently unimpressed. “With a gun, eh? Yuh know,” reflectively, “either one of them old jiggers will shoot. They say that Sailor killed several men down in the Panhandle, and Whisperin’ had so many notches in his gun that it ruined the balance of it and he had to throw it away.”
“That has nothing whatever to do with this case,” said the lawyer.
“Merely proves that you was wise in comin’ away, Baggs.”
“It may seem funny to you,” said Baggs angrily, “but to me there was little humour in the situation. I have a perfect right to visit that ranch. I handled the affairs of Harmony Singer, and I have been retained by Miss Singer in an advisory capacity. I shall advise her to discharge those two men at once, and I shall force the sheriff’s office to give me protection. This is a fine state of affairs for a civilised community.”