“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy. “They’re real nice folks at that ranch.”
He walked to the window of their room, which was on the ground floor, and looked out. The night stage was just leaving, after waiting for the delayed mail from the Greenhorn Mines, and in the light from the hotel office, Sleepy was able to get a fairly clear view of the equipage.
He watched it disappear and turned to Hashknife, who was already in bed.
“The stage just left, and that big Chinaman was on the seat with the driver,” he said.
Hashknife rubbed his nose on the edge of the blanket and grinned at Sleepy.
“Didja want him for anythin’?”
“Not that anybody knows about,” retorted Sleepy. “I jist said that he went away on the stage. If you’d ’a’ told me that, I’d be supposed to marvel to beat hell and lose sleep over it, wouldn’t I?”
Hashknife nodded thoughtfully.
“Thank yuh, Mr. Stevens. I sure do appreciate yore information. C’mon to bed, you limber-jawed saddleslicker. Just because yuh saved my life tonight don’t give yuh no license to get sarcastic with me.”
“I never saved yore life,” declared Sleepy. “Sam Blair wasn’t tryin’ to kill yuh. He was jist lookin’ at yuh. I saved my own life, if anybody rises up to inquire.”