“No, I—I don’t,” says Glory, turning red, “but it wouldn’t ’a’ worked any way, ’cause Willer Crick showed up in force. Me and Dad and uncle Luke thought you seen ’em coming.”
“Your Uncle Luke was the sheriff of Yolo, wasn’t he, Glory?”
“He was once—yes.”
“When he was here?”
“No-o-o—not hardly. He got in bad with the Vigilantes down there.”
Hashknife looked at me and I looks at him, but neither of us says a word. Then Glory says:
“What do you reckon they’ll do with poor Buddy? What did they steal him for? Nobody wanted the little feller.”
“They want to get him away from me so there won’t be no heir to that ranch,” says Hashknife. “They’re goin’ to hoodie that poor little kid out of the way, Glory.”
Hashknife eases himself in his saddle and looks off across the hills. “I never had nothin’ like him—nothin’ in my life. The little jigger liked me, and kinda depended on me, I reckon. I said I was goin’ to keep him, didn’t I?”
Hashknife turns and looks at us.