“Prob’ly a good thing he won’t,” grinned Hashknife. “Any man that wears a mustache like Olson does, couldn’t find his own socks inside his boots. That man has all gone to hair.”
“Samson wore long hair,” reminded Sleepy. “He was strong.”
“Strong—yea-a-ah! But did he have any brains? He didn’t. If he had any brains he wouldn’t have let that woman monkey around him with a pair of shears. Just to prove that he was thick—he slept through the hair-cuttin’. Can yuh imagine that?”
“I think Wade, the railroad detective, was more responsible for the arrests than Olson was,” said Marion.
“I’ve seen him,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s one of them kinda jiggers that don’t care whether he gets the guilty man or not, just so he gets somebody. That feller used to be a policeman in Los Angeles. They take the uniform off a policeman—and he’s a detective.
“Do yuh know that the idea of numberin’ houses in a city was started by a police department? It was. Their officers was always gettin’ into the wrong houses; so they numbered ’em. Nanah, you make gosh-awful good hot-cakes. Yuh do so. You Navajo?”
Nanah nodded quickly.
“Do you speak Navajo?” asked Marion.
Hashknife shook his head.
“Nope. Speak a little Nez Perce, Flat-head, Sioux, English and Profane. Yuh have to wear a rag around yore head to learn Navajo.”