“What gits me,” observed Sleepy, “is why they shot that young feller. He didn’t reach for no gun.”
“Didn’t, eh?”
“Hell, no! His hands were still in the air when he fell. It was a dirty deal, I tell yuh.”
“Don’t tell,” cautioned the sheriff. “Pinnacle is a place where folks with soft voices live longer than yelpers. No offense, my friend—just be cautious; sabe?”
“Thanks,” grunted Sleepy, and attacked his ham and eggs.
“This ain’t the county seat, is it?” asked Hashknife.
“This place?” The sheriff grinned. “Caliente is the county seat. Me and my deputy been back in the Greenhorn country on a case. Don’t get in here very often. Pinnacle ain’t favorable to sheriffs.”
A man came in and looked owlishly around. He was as tall as Hashknife, with a long, thin face, wispy mustache, which grew heavier on one side than the other, faded blond hair, and a nose that had been, at some time, knocked slightly out of plumb with the rest of his features.
He goggled at the sheriff, grinned widely, and pointed at him with a shaking finger.
“There y’are, li’l angel,” he gurgled. “Hol’ still, now.”