“He’s a small man, Hartley. Steve Guadalupe is not much over five feet tall, but inside his dirty brain is all the deviltry, cunning, and avarice of the low-bred Mexican and Yaqui combined.
“The Rancho Sierra is isolated; an ideal place for him to offer as a hangout for every type of outlaw. The Mexican Government is too busy with its own troubles to bother with him, and he is careful to keep out of the clutches of the men on this side.
“I have no doubt that Guadalupe is in constant touch with men in this part of the country. Many of the Tumbling H cattle have gone to fill the coffers of Guadalupe, and to fill the bellies of him and his men. I should like to wring his neck.”
“Might be a pious deed,” agreed Hashknife. “I wonder if the K-10 lose any cattle?”
“I don’t know. There is no friendship lost between the Tumbling H and the K-10, so we should not be informed of their losses.”
Big Medicine did not quiz Hashknife about what had been said to the revenue officers that morning, nor was Jack Hill mentioned. They finished out their smokes and went into the house, where Musical was trying to improve on the phonograph patents.
That night Hashknife and Sleepy sat until midnight in a corner of the corral, where Sleepy shivered in the chill wind and swore in an undertone at himself for being partner to a lunatic.
Nothing happened, except for the wailing of a few wandering coyotes and the peevish hooting of an owl, far back in the dark cañon. Finally Hashknife decided that it was useless to stay longer, so they went back, crawled through the window, so as not to disturb anyone, and went to bed.
“I know one thing that I wasn’t sure of before,” declared Sleepy, as he snuggled down into bed.
“What’s that, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.