They left the Turkey Track and soon found that they were on the old road of the night before. The horses were willing to follow this, after miles of brushy going. About a mile along the road they suddenly drew rein. Some one ahead of them had lighted a match.
They drew off to one side, and in a minute a rider passed them, puffing on a cigaret. They gave him plenty of chance to ride on, before they swung back into the road.
“That was probably one of the Turkey Track riders, who was at the inquest,” said Hashknife. “I’ll betcha they’re all wonderin’ where we went.”
“I’ll betcha I don’t care,” said Sleepy. “I’m wonderin’ what’s goin’ to become of us. We can’t buck the whole county, Hashknife.”
“Not all at once, Sleepy. We may have to make ’em form a line. Right now I feel so danged sleepy that I don’t care what happens.”
“I hope I never get that way. When my hide is in danger, my skin tightens up so much that I can’t shut my eyes.”
They rode in at the gate of Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted at the corral. There was no sign of a light in the house. They unsaddled and put the horses into the the little corral, threw them some hay and debated on what to do.
“Will we wake ’em up?” asked Sleepy.
“Not under the circumstances. We’ll see if there’s some hay in his little stable, and if there is, we’ll hive up there for the night. It ain’t noways healthy to go knockin’ on ranch house doors at night in Lo Lo Valley. In the mornin’ we’ll start in clearin’ the atmosphere around here.”
“What do yuh mean, Hashknife?”