Not bein’ wishful to take any chances of a night attack, the three of us slept in the open. We took bedding from the house and rolled up under the trees. Buddy thought it was a picnic. The next morning we finds a notice on the front door, which reads:
GIT OUT THIS IS THE LAST WARNIN
“Well,” observes Hashknife, “we’ll just about take that advice. Not that Willer Crick is runnin’ any whizzer on us, Sleepy, but we’ve got to kinda look out for this little Buddy, eh, Bud?”
“Betcha,” nods Buddy. “But we ain’t scared, are we?”
“It’s a wonder to me that this here kid ain’t cleaned up on that bunch before this, Sleepy. He’s got plenty of nerve. Did yuh ever shoot a gun, Buddy?”
“No, but I betcha I could.”
“He’s got it, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “Natcheral born terrier. Let’s pack up.”
We saddled our broncs and packed up all the clothes we can for the kid, which ain’t much. We took a little grub and then pulled out, with the kid riding in front of Hashknife. We took Glory’s rifle and belt with us, figuring on going past Sillman’s place and leaving it there.
There’s another road angling off the one to town, and the kid tells us that it goes past Glory’s place. We ain’t got nothin’ to take us through town; so we swings off onto this road. About a mile farther on Hashknife pulls up his horse and squints off down into a brushy coulee.