HIDDEN BLOOD
CHAPTER I
HASHKNIFE HAS RHEUMATISM IN HIS LEG
“If I had rheumatism like you’ve got, I’d sure head for the hot springs. Yuh can boil it out easier’n any other way.”
The owner of Piute leaned back, braced his bony elbows on the bar, spat wisely, and squinted at the two cowboys, who were draped against the bar beside him.
“Hashknife” Hartley, a tall, thin, serious-faced cowboy, was standing on one leg, much in the attitude of a stork, except that his knee naturally bent the other way.
“Sleepy” Stevens, Hashknife’s partner, was of medium height, with a grin-wrinkled face and serious eyes. There was nothing colorful nor romantic about their raiment or physical appearance. They were clad in well-worn overalls, nondescript shirts, high-heeled boots, and sombreros.
Their cartridge belts were scarred, weathered, as were their holsters, from which protruded the plain wood butts of single-action Colt sixshooters. They wore no coats. Hashknife’s vest was little more than a wrinkled piece of cloth, suspended stringlike from his shoulders, affording him pocket room for his tobacco and cigarette papers.
“Which way do yuh head for hot springs, pardner?” asked Sleepy, making cabalistic marks on the scarred bar top with the bottom of his wet glass. “I’m goin’ to put this lean pardner of mine on to boil.”
“Aw, I’ll be all right,” protested Hashknife, flexing his aching leg.
“You won’t be until yuh are,” flared Sleepy. “Yuh can’t ride a horse thataway. I’ve done used up a bottle of horse liniment on yuh, and all it’s done is to make yuh smell.”