There was nothing pretentious about Pinnacle. In fact there was little excuse for its existence, except as an outfitting point for the Greenhorn Mines. The buildings were mostly of adobe, and none of them more than one story.
On the west side of the street were a blacksmith shop, stage station, post-office, two saloons, and a restaurant, while on the opposite side were two saloons, two stores, a hotel, and an assay office.
One of these saloons was the Greenback, which boasted a full assortment of gambling paraphernalia, a small dance-hall, and enough “girls” to make things interesting for the lonely miners or cowpunchers.
There were no sidewalks in Pinnacle. The more pretentious of the buildings had porches or wooden awnings, supported by rough posts, and practically every building had a long hitch-rack in front, making almost a continual railing on each side of the street.
Hashknife and Sleepy found the sheriff, Lon Pelley, in the one café, and he made room for them at his table, after introducing himself. Their names meant nothing to the sheriff, who asked them for an account of the holdup and shooting. He had already had a talk with the stagedriver.
“Got any idea who this young feller is?” asked Hashknife, after he had told what they knew about it.
The sheriff shook his head quickly.
“I dunno who he is. The doctor says he’s goin’ to live. He’s conscious now.”
“How much of a haul did they make, Sheriff?”
“Dunno that either. The way bills of the express company were in the treasure box, so they got the whole works. I don’t reckon anybody’ll know until the express company checks up on it.”