“I don’t think so, Hartley.”
“Didja search the town?”
The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had stopped and turned back to town.
“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.
“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had killed Porter.”
“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the heel. They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’ to kill somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every time. By golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot that he worries me.”
As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt rode in on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.
“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start out, but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”
“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”
Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from his pocket, which he gave to her.