Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.
The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.
Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.
They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.
“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”
“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.
“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”
“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”
They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.
“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”