“You could learn some prayers,” says Hashknife soft-like, “and then yuh could teach ’em to the rest of the Crick, ’cause they’re goin’ to need ’em—bad. Who will tell his widder about this?”
“The council, I reckon. Jim Sillman, Sim Sellers and Black Albright.”
“Goin’ to be a nice chore for Jim Sillman—tell her that his own son is dead. Didn’t Glory have nothing’ to do with Eph’s wife?”
“Glory—I dunno,” says Bassett, scratching his head. “Some says she has. There’s been several quarrels about it in the last year. She has been watched close, but nothin’ comes of it, except that ‘Tug’ Williams got a rifle bullet into his shoulder one night.”
“Where does Eph Sillman live?”
Bassett points down the road.
“About two mile down there. Second ranch to the left. House sets back in the cottonwoods. You ain’t goin’ down there.”
“You’ve been misinformed,” says Hashknife. “We’re goin’ down there, I reckon.”
“Better keep away, Hartley. Willer Crick ain’t askin’ yore help. My advice to you would be——”
“Ignored,” finishes Hashknife. “Absolutely, Bassett. You ought to know us better than to give us advice. You ain’t forgot how we acts, has yuh?”