“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”
“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”
Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.
“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.
“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”
“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”
“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”
The merchant slid a box across the counter.
“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”
“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”