But except for a frightened Mexican cook, the place was deserted. Sleepy pinned him against the wall and promised to shoot the ears off his head if he did not tell them where everyone had gone, but the Mexican did not know.
Musical talked to him in his own language, but all Musical could get from him was a protestation that he knew nothing, except that they had tied a wounded man to a horse and had all ridden away. No, he did not know their direction nor destination.
They let him go and went back to their horses. The K-10 corral was empty. Sleepy leaned dejectedly against the shoulder of his horse and squinted out across the hills.
“Darn his long-legged soul,” he said hoarsely, blinking into the sun. “Went and run his head right into a trap. Never did have any sense, dang him. Now he’s up against a tough deal, and here I am, standin’ here in the sun, like a danged galliwimpus. It kinda seems”—Sleepy hesitated—“It kinda seems that me and him have been together so long that I’ve let him do my thinkin’.”
“Well,” said Big Medicine wearily, as he swung his leg across his saddle, “it seems like a lot of things have gone wrong. I haven’t the slightest idea where the K-10 outfit have gone.”
“Mexico!” snapped Ike angrily.
He wanted to invade the country.
“Perhaps,” nodded Big Medicine. “I suppose we may as well tell the sheriff and enlist his help.”
“And have him tell us that it’s all wrong to go across the border,” grumbled Musical. “We don’t need his help. Anyway, he’s prob’ly in a big pot jist now and won’t want to be bothered.”
They rode slowly away from the K-10 and headed back toward Pinnacle. Sleepy humped in his saddle and pictured what he would do when he met any of that K-10 outfit. The loss of Hashknife had driven away his habitual sense of humor, and all he wanted to do was to find something or somebody to shoot at.