“Who in the devil got hit?” wailed Horse-Collar in a thin voice. “Lemme alone, will you, Lovely? Keep your nose out of my business, will yu-u-u-uh? ’F I want to pile Wind River, I don’t need no advice from you. Gittin’ so a man can’t even git knocked down, without somebody advisin’ him.”
“Give ’m hell!” grunted Wind River. “’S’ all right, Roarin’. I’m shober.”
Wind River cuffed his wide hat almost over his eyes, got his bearings and headed out through the doorway.
“Have a li’l drink, Roarin’?” asked Lovely.
“You boys better go home, Lovely.”
“Tha’ so? Huh! Whaffor? Nothin’ to do. We ain’t goin’ home until—whatcha shay, Horsh-Collar?”
“Drunken idiots,” said Roaring, and he went out.
Hashknife and Sleepy circled the Hot Creek ranch fence to where the wire had been cut at the north side and then they came down to the coulee where the Big 4 steers had been killed. Luckily they had been killed far enough away so as not to pollute the water. A coyote sneaked away from one of them, and a flock of magpies went chattering into the trees. Nature’s scavengers were swiftly obliterating the Big 4 losses.
Hashknife examined one of the steers. It had been shot in the head.
“Funny they didn’t hear the shootin’ down at Conley’s,” said Sleepy.