The black horse snorted wildly, as Hashknife arose, covering the rider with the rifle. The man jerked back and his hands went above his head, while the horse surged back. The rider was of medium height, slightly gray, his bronzed face heavily lined, one cheek bulged with a chew of tobacco. He quieted the horse, spat explosively and shut one eye as he looked down at Hashknife.
“Well?” he said rather defiantly.
“Not so well,” said Hashknife coldly. He circled the horse, but there was no rifle in sight.
“What’s the idea?” queried the man. “That’s what I want to know. Who are you, pardner?”
“M’ name’s Goode. G-o-o-d-e. Called ‘Plenty.’”
“Yeah? Good rifle shot?”
“Fair.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife considered Mr. Goode. He was not a soft-looking person.
“Of course, it’s none of my business, but I’m just curious to know who, or which one of us, you tried to kill a while ago, Mr. Goode?”
“Me?” Goode spat thoughtfully. “That’s a queer question, my friend with the cocked Winchester. ’S far as I remember, I ain’t tried to kill anybody for a long time.”