Them Willer Crick hills sure do look natural. We rides past the old Godfrey ranch, which me and Hashknife owned for a few days. The old ranch-house is still squeegeed from the force of the dynamite, when the “heirs apparently,” as Sol Vane called ’em, dug into the alleged grave of poor old Godfrey. It looks like nobody had ever lived in it since we left.
We rides on past the Sillman ranch, where Hashknife came danged near being a bridegroom and a cash-widower. We don’t see anybody around there, but Willer Crick is a great place for folks to not be in evidence. About a mile farther on we comes to the town.
It sure is some town. There’s a saloon, a store and a blacksmith shop on one side of the street and on the other side is an old shed, a long tie-rack and a pile of old lumber. The saloon is two-stories high, and the upper half has a sign which proclaims it to be the Town Hall.
There’s several saddle horses tied to the rack. The town hall has an outside stairway and around the bottom of this is grouped four men. When we get off our broncs one of the men strolls over to us. It’s Al Bassett. Al was one of those who was very active in seeking our demise when we were in Willer Crick before, but me and Hashknife never figured him much of anything but a talker. He squints at us.
“Howdy, Bassett,” grins Hashknife. “Remember us?”
“Well,” says Bassett, drawing a deep breath, “well, ye-e-s, I do.”
He stares at us like he was kinda wondering why we came back there again. His mouth kinda gaps as he stares.
“Better look out or you’ll get your tonsils sunburned,” says Hashknife.
Them other three fellers moves over closer to us. We never seen them before. Bassett turns and starts to speak to ’em, but just then we hears loud voices, and out of the the door of the store backs a man.