“Sleepy, there’s the old’ man’s mule there, ain’t it?”
“It’s the mule all right; feeding around in the brush.”
We swings our horses around and rides along the edge of the coulee, which leads down a deeper ravine.
“Anybody live around here—close, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.
“Mitch Ames lives down there,” says Buddy, pointing down the ravine.
“Fine!” grins Hashknife. “I dunno Mitch, but we’ll go down and see him.”
“You seen him yesterday,” says Buddy. “He was to my house with them men.”
“Oh, is that a fact? Well, he called on us, Buddy, and it ain’t no more than fair that we calls on him. Sleepy, did yuh notice that the mule was wearin’ a piece of pocket-rope. Likely broke loose.”
Mitch Ames’ cabin was cached away in that ravine, like he was scared somebody would find it, but Buddy knowed right where it was. We swung down the hill above it. Setting beside the cabin, tilted back in a chair, is two men. One of the horses steps on a round rock and sends it bumping down the hill and it hops into the bushes right near ’em.
Jump? Man I’d say they jumped! One of ’em had a rifle across his knee, and when he seen us he started to throw it to his shoulder, but the other feller grabbed him and yanked him around the corner.