It was late that evening when Musical Matthews and Cleve Davis rode in at the Tumbling H and met Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few short words Big Medicine told them that Hashknife and Sleepy would be with them until Hashknife’s rheumatism had succumbed to the effect of the hot baths.
Hashknife had just got out of bed and was feeling better, but slightly weak. Lucy had told about Hashknife’s encounter with Torres, and it seemed to please everyone except Hashknife. Big Medicine seemed a bit dubious over the outcome of it.
“Watch that Mexican,” he warned Hashknife. “He’s a snake.”
“I’ve made snakes bite themselves,” grinned Hashknife.
“Didja ever see one of them knife-throwin’ Mex handle his weapon?” asked Musical.
“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I don’t sabe ’em much.”
“Then look out for ’em. Knives don’t make no noise. I’d shore rather face a six-gun than a knife, and either Torres or his dirty-face pardner, Garcia, can shore pin your ears back with a knife at twenty feet.”
Lucy came to announce supper, and they all clattered to the table, except Hashknife.
“I’ve done lost my appetite,” he told them. “Couldn’t eat a thing, folks; so I reckon I’ll take the lantern and go out to the bathhouse. Another good soakin’ and a big sleep will put me in the saddle again.”
Lucy secured the lantern for him and he went out through the kitchen, while the rest of them did ample justice to the culinary efforts of Lucy and Wanna, who waited on the table silently.