“Willer Crick will be looking for us, Hashknife,” says I.
“I hope so, Sleepy. I hopes they forms a holler square and hauls out their cannon.”
“Mebbe,” says I, “mebbe we ought to let Willer Crick dispose of their own business. They ain’t got no sense, but maybe they’ll give the kid a square deal, if we give ’em a chance.”
“Maybe the devil could skate—if he had ice—but we know he ain’t.”
There’s at least twenty-five saddled horses in town, but not a person in sight as we swung down the street, but as we swung past the store a man came out. He gave us one look and then started for the outside stairs of the town hall. He showed speed, but not enough. Hashknife jumped his bronc across the sidewalk and into that feller, just short of the bottom step.
The bronc’s shoulder hit that feller, and he went spinning away like a tumble-weed in a wind; then Hashknife’s bronc hit the flimsy railing of the stairs and went down. Out of the tangle comes Hashknife and he’s got his Winchester. The bronc gets to its feet and limps away, while Hashknife runs along the side of the building and around to the front.
“Get off and under cover, you danged fool!” he yelps at me. “Willer Crick is all upstairs!”
I jumps my horse out of line with the windows and gets off. I hears somebody yelp a question, and then I follers Hashknife across the street, where we ducks in behind that old shed. I reckon that Willer Crick was too excited to take a shot at us when we went across the street.
Extending out from the side of the shed is a pile of old lumber, which we proceeds to get behind. It’s about three feet high and ten feet long. Between us and the other side of the street is the tie-rack, full of saddle-horses.
The feller who got knocked down is crawling out of sight behind the saloon, and Hashknife’s bronc is just wandering around between the saloon and the store.