“Why did they shoot this stranger?”
“I dunno. Somebody said he went for his gun, but one of them punchers said it was a lie, that his hands were still in the air when he went down.”
“Kinda queer,” said Kern thoughtfully.
He shrugged his thin shoulders and went back to his horse. They crossed to the Greenback Saloon hitch-rack, and the blacksmith went back to work, grinning to himself. He did not like Torres.
Sleepy wore a wide grin as they rode away from Pinnacle, but Hashknife’s face was serious. The incident had not seemed as humorous to him as it had to Sleepy.
“I ain’t laughin’ at that gaudy Mexican’s bath,” explained Sleepy. “I’m grinnin’ to think that you even forgot to limp.”
“Eh?” Hashknife looked up quickly and a grin twisted his lips. “By golly, that’s right, Sleepy. I plumb forgot to limp. And that only goes to show that most of these diseases are all in yore head. I was plumb lame until I seen that feller tryin’ to talk to the women, and then I forgot all about it. Right now it’s commencin’ to hurt me, ’cause I’m thinkin’ about it.”
“You sure gave that Mexican a coolin’-off, cowboy. He jist sizzled. I didn’t see it all, ’cause them three fellers rode up kinda fast, and I thought mebbe they was goin’ to try and stop yuh. I dunno why it is”—Sleepy’s tone changed and he became mournful—“it seems like when there’s any heroin’ to be done I have to hold the horses.”
Hashknife laughed, as he sifted a cigarette paper full of Durham.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be a hero, Sleepy.”