“Oh, all right,” said Hashknife meekly. “We don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Haulin’ in yore horns, eh?” sneered Hill. “Well, I knew——”
Hashknife started toward Hill, looking him square in the eyes. It was a bold move; a foolish move, under the circumstances. But it got results. Hill started to retreat, not realizing that he was on the edge of a two-foot-high sidewalk. His first backward step dropped his foot off the edge and he sprawled on his back in the hard street. It was such a shock that he made no attempt to get up for several moments.
Hodges laughed outright and the tension was relaxed. Even the sheriff grinned.
“And that ends the mornin’ performance,” said Hashknife. “It’s a good trick—when it works.”
He turned his back on the crowd and walked back toward the Totem Saloon. After a moment’s scrutiny of the crowd, Sleepy turned and followed him, while Gene Hill got to his feet and swore with what little breath he had left.
Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Totem Saloon hitch rack, where they had left their horses, mounted and rode out of town toward the west. The crowd in front of the sheriff’s office watched them and wondered where they were going. But none of them cared to follow. Anyway, they had captured Eph King, and that was quite enough for one day.
They adjourned to the Totem Saloon, where they proceeded to regale themselves with whisky and recite their own deeds of valor. Slim De Larimore rode in after ammunition and found Hork, the storekeeper, swearing a streak.
“Ammunition, ——!” he roared. “I got enough shells on that train last night to supply an army, and some dirty coyote broke into my place last night and stole the whole works! Holy gosh, they not only took the new shipment, but they took everythin’ else!”
“And that leaves us in a fine fix,” declared Slim angrily. “I’m almost out of shells, I tell yuh.”