Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.
“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.
He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.
“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”
“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”
“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”
“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.
“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”
Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.
The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.