“Why, kinda settlin’ arguments and all that.”
“Oh, yeah. Listen to me, cowboy: Our best bet is to slide out of here as fast as we can. We’ll never get anywhere in an argument with these folks. The best we can hope for is a chance to write our last will and testament, as the lawyers call it. My idea of a good time would be to sneak over to Turkey Track crossin’, flag down the first train and hook our spurs into a cushion seat. We ain’t got no business around here.”
“All right,” Hashknife sighed heavily. “I didn’t know you was the runnin’-away kind, Sleepy. Have you forgotten last night? Have you forgiven them men for shootin’ a horse out from between the legs of your little friend? And last, but not least, do you want to run away from these kind folks, who like us so well that they want to fix it so we’ll never leave their soil?”
“Mm-m-m, well,” hesitated Sleepy, “let’s see if there’s any hay in this stable. If there ain’t, we can carry some in from the stack.”
And that same night Eph King stood in the light of one of the camp-fires and gazed off into the night; a huge figure of a man, his deeply lined face high-lighted in the glow from the fire, his head bared to the wind. Near him crouched the wizened old man who did his cooking, poking coals around a huge coffeepot.
The little cook straightened up and looked at King.
“Want a cup of hot coffee?” he asked.
King shook his head slowly.
“No, Shorty.”
“Uh-huh.” The cook squinted out into the night. “It ain’t like I expected, is it to you?”