They threw the empty cans outside and went to the horses. The cowboys helped Moran adjust the stirrups to the proper length.
“My name’s ‘Hashknife’ Hartley,” said the tall cowboy. “This pardner of mine is named Stevens. Folks call him ‘Sleepy,’ ’cause he ain’t.”
“Well, I’m both glad and lucky to meet you,” laughed Moran. “There’s some trouble over in Turquoise City, and I’m anxious to get over there.”
“Trouble, eh?” Hashknife Hartley’s long nose twitched.
Moran mounted and picked up his reins. Sleepy Stevens was looking at Hashknife, a queer expression in his blue eyes.
“Seems there is,” nodded Moran. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. He turned to Sleepy.
“Don’t miss that train, pardner; I’ll be lookin’ for you.”
Sleepy nodded solemnly and watched them ride away. Finally he cuffed his Stetson over on one side of his head, spat disgustedly and walked back toward the saloon.
“Trouble!” he snorted aloud. “By God, there wasn’t nothin’ but a depot and a saloon, a depot-agent and a bartender —and we found trouble jist the same.”