It was like Hashknife to refuse to tell of things they had done. After he and Sleepy Stevens had joined forces and left the Hashknife outfit, fate seemed to throw them into troubled waters. Hashknife was either blessed or cursed with an analytical mind. A range mystery was food and drink to him. Sleepy’s mind ran in normal channels, but he loved to roam, and his love of adventure, fearlessness in the face of danger, made him a valuable ally to Hashknife.
So for a number of years their trail had led them where the cattle roamed, working on mysteries; more often than not, working for the sheer love of the thing, rather than for pay. At times they had stepped out of a pall of powder smoke, mounted their horses and rode away ahead of the thanks of those whose future had been made more bright by their coming.
“Soldiers of fortune,” a man had called them.
“Cowpunchers of disaster,” corrected Hashknife.
And in all their wanderings, the thing uppermost in their minds was to find the spot where they might be satisfied to settle down and live a peaceful life; both of them realizing all the while that they would never be satisfied with peace. Always the other side of the hill called to them—the irresistible call of the open, of the strange places, which is always answered by men who can’t sit still.
XI—THE SHERIFF WONDERS
After Goode rode back to Blue Wells he met Lee Barnhardt, who was taking a drink at the Oasis, and Goode, who was also drinking, told him of his visit to the Double Bar 8, and of the mysterious shot. The lawyer was naturally interested and questioned Goode closely, but Goode knew nothing of who had fired the shot.
“I met Hartley and Stevens,” offered Goode. “They’re the same two jiggers that cleaned up that Modoc job.”
“Detectives?” asked Barnhardt.
“Oh, I dunno about that part of it. But that ain’t the only job they ever cleaned up. There’s a lot more behind that one, and I’ll betcha they’ve not been idle since then. I’m wonderin’ what they’re doin’ here.”