This was their belief, ingrained from many incidents, which proved their point—to them, at least.
CHAPTER IV
SO DOES HASHKNIFE
Hawkworth’s Tumbling H ranch buildings were not much to look at. They were situated at the mouth of a cañon, which gave them a fair view of the broad expanse of Hawk Hole, and the elements had colored them until they blended into the gray of the landscape.
The ranch-house was a two-story, half-adobe, half-frame construction. The house had originally been a one-story adobe, but later a frame had been built upon the original, giving it the appearance of a shack that had been lifted by a mud upheaval.
Behind it and to the right was a one-story adobe stable and a pole corral, where several horses drowsed in the heat. To the left of the ranch-house was the little adobe blacksmith shop, and back of that, nearer the cañon, was the bathhouse.
There was a general air of don’t-care-a-hang-how-we-look about the place. The front yard was a bare expanse of gravel and weeds, the fence fallen down in places. It might have well been a deserted ranch, instead of what it was.
Sleepy sniffed disgustedly, as they rode in past the sagging gate.
“For gosh’ sake, what smells around here?” he asked.
“That’s the hot springs,” grinned Hashknife. “Sulphur and a lot of other stuff. I sabe the smell. Some folks like to drink it.”
“Some folks ought to be investigated,” grunted Sleepy. “You may lose yore rheumatism, but you’ll gain somethin’ worse. Git that stuff in yore hair and see how long I stay around yuh.”