The sheriff grew thoughtful. Then an idea seemed to strike him.
“Slim, I’ll betcha it was Hartley and Stevens. I tell yuh, they’re here for no good. Yessir, that’s some of their work. What time did them shells arrive?”
“On the train last night, I suppose.”
“Hm-m-m! By grab, I’ll bet they got ’em. Next time I get a chance I’m goin’ to shove them into jail, I tell yuh. They’ve caused me all the worry they’re goin’ to. Want to see King?”
“Aw, to —— with him.”
“Didn’t know but what you’d like to laugh at him, Slim.”
“Naw. I’ve got to be gettin’ back. These crazy punchers chasin’ all over the country, drinkin’ liquor and capturin’ people kinda busts a lot of holes in the dead-line. Next thing we know, we’ll have sheep all over the street down here.”
Slim went out, swung into his saddle and rode out of town, heading north.
Eight armed men were eating a belated lunch at the sheep camp when Hashknife and Sleepy rode their jaded horses up to the huddle of tents and dismounted. They had circled far to the west, beyond the guarded dead-line, to get past the cattlemen.
Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy thing to do; to ride into that sheep camp. A number of saddle horses were tied to the wagons, giving it the appearance of a cattle camp. The sheepmen ceased eating and received them with Winchesters in their hands; a hard-bitten lot of men, who handled their rifles with familiarity.