“Wait a minute,” said Hashknife. “I want to find out somethin’.”
He hurried across the street and into the hotel, where he found the proprietor scrubbing out the office.
“Is that young Jack Hill here yet?” asked Hashknife.
The man wrung out his mop, spat reflectively, and shook his head.
“Nawsir, he ain’t. Engaged a room and never used it. Walked out of here the night he came, and I ain’t see hide nor hair of him since.”
“Don’t know where he went, do yuh?”
The man scratched his head and leaned the mop handle against his hip.
“No. Ike Marsh unloaded him here, yuh remember? Little later on I hears voices down here. So down I comes and sees Baldy Kern jist goin’ away. I asks the young feller what Baldy wanted, but he don’t seem to know who I mean. But at that, I reckon Baldy was a-talkin’ to him.”
Hashknife thanked him for the information and went back to the hitch-rack where the rest were waiting.
“We’ve decided to cross the border and visit the Rancho Sierra,” declared Ike jubilantly. “Here’s where I git me a Mexican. C’mon.”