“Why didn’t we take Cale Ames out with us, Hashknife?” I asks. “Mebbe the sheriff won’t be able to find him.”
“It would be our word against a hundred, Sleepy. Me and you ain’t so danged lily-white that a jury’d take our word against a hundred; and besides, hangin’ ain’t half as bad as thinkin’ about it.”
At the forks of the road, where the old sign-board hangs, we found the old preacher and Glory Sillman with a rifle.
“I had a escort,” says the old man, nodding at Glory. “She—she saw that I got out safe.”
“She did,” nods Hashknife. “I seen that a mile or so ago.”
Glory starts to swing her horse around.
“I—I reckon I better be going back,” says she.
“You come wit’ us,” says Buddy. “We licked ’em.” Glory looks at Buddy and then at Hashknife.
“I’m goin’ to adopt him,” says Hashknife. “Yuh might come with us, Glory. There ain’t no more Willer Crick law to stop yuh now. The trail’s wide open.”
Glory and Hashknife sets there and looks at each other. I looks at the old man and he looks at me. I turns and points down the valley and says to the old man: