They rode away from the ranch over the road which led to Pinnacle, while the lights from the open door of the Tumbling H faded in the distance.
“So Sam Blair was the puncher from Oregon, eh?” said Hashknife.
“Kinda looks like it,” agreed Sleepy. “He had that lantern up close to his head and I knowed him right away. I’ll betcha he recognized you, Hashknife.”
“He sure would.”
Hashknife squinted ahead, as he visualized the day that he and Sleepy had busted up a little gang in the Idaho hills, a gang of four horse-thieves. Sam Blair had been the sole survivor. They turned him over to the sheriff, and he had later wounded a deputy sheriff and made his escape.
“Mebbe it’s a good thing he’s passed on,” observed Hashknife. “Blair could do us a lot of harm, if he’s connected with a bad outfit down here. We’ll just set tight and see which way things jump. Either Blair tried to kill me with a knife, or he was connected with Torres. I don’t think Blair done it. He got a good look at me, and when you showed up he got panicky and started throwin’ lead. But what was he there for?”
“Don’t ask me,” replied Sleepy. “I ain’t no use when it comes to thinkin’ things out. Where did we find Blair?”
“Right here.”
The road turned sharply around the point of a hill with brush on each side. Hashknife dismounted and kicked around in the brush, digging his heels into the dirt and otherwise making it appear as though the body had been found there. Sleepy forced the horses to turn several times in the road.
Then, as sort of an afterthought, Hashknife drew the long knife from inside his shirt bosom and tossed it near the spot.