Then the whole danged bunch limped in behind Chuck.
I passed Chuck in a few minutes, and then I made Muley eat my dust. Telescope has contracted a limp, which causes him to weave across the road a lot and makes it hard for me to pass him. But I made it. Nobody said anything to me, and, when folks don’t speak to me as I go past, I get snobby, too.
I hobbles into Mike Pelly’s saloon and sets down. There ain’t nobody there except the bartender. Pretty soon Telescope weaves in and sets down in the other corner. Chuck points straight for the pool-table, and then Muley stumbles in. He looks to have lost twenty pounds, and his feet have swelled until he’s had to slit his boots.
“You fellers quitting the Cross J?” asks the bartender. “Thought maybe you was,” he continues when we don’t answer, “’cause I seen your boss leading four horses behind the wagon when he left last night.”
“Last night?” asks Muley. “Wagon?”
“Uh-huh. Borrowed Mike’s team and wagon.”
I rolled a smoke, and the match made as much noise as a six-shooter. We never thought to look in the corral last night.
Then Wick Smith comes in. He buys himself a drink, and then he wipes his mustache. He looks at us sad-like and shakes his head.
“Been to the post-office,” says he. “She ain’t coming until this afternoon.”
“——!” grunts Telescope. “That team must ’a’ taken her a long ways.”