“My gosh, do yuh reckon he done that, Hashknife?”
“Yuh can’t dispute a dead man, can yuh? We’ve got to find this here Ed person and get an explanation. C’mon.”
They fastened the door, mounted their horses and rode on toward Totem City. It was growing dark now.
“If I ever get my sylph-like form between sheets, I’ll never get up,” declared Sleepy. “I’m plumb bug-eyed, I tell yuh. Night don’t mean nothin’ to me, except darkness. That Hartwell place is a hoodoo, I tell yuh. Every time we show up there we run into death. Well, why don’tcha say somethin’, Hashknife? Do a little talkin’, can’tcha?”
“Talk about what?”
“Anythin’, dang it. I’ve got to talk, hear talkin’ or go to sleep on this frazzle-legged bronc. If I fall off, don’tcha dare to pick me up. Just figure that I’m dead and lemme lay, cowboy. Why don’tcha sing? My ——, you’d sing at any other time.”
“Cows!” exclaimed Hashknife, jerking up his horse.
The road ahead of them was full of cows, the slope below them was a moving mass of cows, and more cows were coming down a cañon and crossing the road. Hashknife dismounted and Sleepy followed suit. It was impossible to estimate the number of cattle that crossed the road ahead of them.
And behind them came riders, not visible against the darkness of the landscape, but audible. One of them snapped a bull whip, like the report of a small pistol. Then they drifted away in the night, leaving only the odor of dust and cattle. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, as near as the two cowboys could judge.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy as they got wearily back on their horses and went ahead. “Reckon it was within the law?”