Jimmy Legg had arrived at the Double Bar 8, with his head swathed in bandages, his sombrero cocked at an angle. He slid out of his saddle, hitched up his belt and gazed soberly at the two cowboys.
“Hello,” he said.
“How’s the head?” asked Hashknife.
“Gee, it sure was sore this morning. I didn’t sleep much last night. I guess I was scared,” Jimmy grinned widely. “Got to thinking how close I came to getting me a harp. Honest, it was an awful dream. You see, I’m not musical at all.”
The two cowboys grinned with Jimmy. He looked at the lawyer’s horse quizzically.
“Who rides that thing?” he asked.
“An attorney from Blue Wells,” said Hashknife.
“Oh, Lee Barnhardt? Well,” Jimmy hitched up his belt, “it looks like him. They’ve both got the same shape neck.”
“Yuh hadn’t ought to make fun of a horse,” said Sleepy.
“No, I suppose not. Really, I shouldn’t make fun of anybody. I ought to put in most of my time being thankful I’m alive. I am, too. I’ve got to go and have the doctor dress my head, but I thought I’d stop and see Miss Taylor. She’s going to need some help around here, and I thought I’d offer my services. The AK really don’t need me.”