He was as good as his word. Hashknife and Sleepy were not at all faint-hearted, but that driver brought prayers to their lips before the running team reached the bottom of Hawk Hole. In fact he had caused Hashknife to forget his rheumatism.
“How are yuh standin’ it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.
“He either scared or bumped it all out of me,” replied Hashknife.
“I’ll betcha. There’s some things that even rheumatism won’t stand for, I reckon. We ought to be close to town. That driver said five or six miles, and we fell that far.”
In a few minutes they drove into the sleeping town of Pinnacle and stopped in front of a stage station. Daylight was flooding the hill now. A sleepy-eyed individual opened the door of the stage office and came out to them. Across the street glowed the dim light of an oil lamp over a poker game.
Somewhere a cheap phonograph screeched a tune, following a squeaky announcement that it was being sung by So-and-So, for the So-and-So “Phonograph Cuc-cuc-company of New Yar-r-r-k and Par-Par-Paris.”
It did not take the excited driver long to blurt out the fact that he had been held up, robbed of the strongbox, and that he had a dying man inside the stage. The sleepy-eyed one snapped into life. He turned around twice, evidently undecided just what to do—and did nothing.
“Yore best bet is to take this feller to a doctor,” declared Hashknife.
“That’s right,” agreed the sleepy-eyed one. “Doc Henry lives jist outside town, Pete. He ain’t such a damn good doctor, I don’t suppose, but he’s all we’ve got. Say, the sheriff is here, I think. Anyway, he was here last night, and mebbe he’s over there in that poker game right now. Lemme look.”
He ran across the street into a saloon, and was back in a minute, followed by a short, heavy man, who questioned the driver regarding the affair.