“Yeah—and lick ’em,” retorted Hashknife. “S’long.”
They went up the street, walking stiff-legged and laughing at each other.
“Bad men from Bitter River,” chuckled Sleepy. “I feel as tough as pelican soup. I’ll betcha that single-track-minded sheriff thinks we’re in earnest.”
“If he don’t think we are, he ought to try us,” said Hashknife seriously. “I’m gettin’ tired of bein’ suspected as a sheepherder.”
Totem City was beginning to wake up as they entered the restaurant. They were the first customers of the day, and the sleepy-eyed waiter was none too cheerful. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were badly in need of some sleep, so they drank many cups of black coffee, while the waiter sucked at an extinct cigaret and wondered why these two strangers persisted in staying around Totem City, when they were not wanted. He had heard them discussed considerable.
They had finished eating when old Sam Hodges came in. He had been talking with the sheriff, who had told him about the shooting at Jack Hartwell’s place.
“It’s a danged queer proposition,” he told them. “A lot of them men at the inquest kinda want to salivate you two fellers. That shot yuh fired over our heads made ’em mad, don’tcha know it?”
“If they want us, we’re here,” grinned Hashknife.
“Sure, sure. But that ain’t it, boys. I know yuh. They’d have one —— of a time puttin’ their hands on yuh, but it would be fifty to one, don’tcha see? Now, you fellers show sense. Come out to the Bar 77 and hole up until this is over. There ain’t nobody out there but the cook. ——, I don’t want to see you fellers hurt.”
“That’s fine of yuh, Hodges,” said Hashknife. “We appreciate it a heap. Yo’re plumb white, but we can’t do it. We’ve been shot at. And we never hole up after we’ve been shot at.”