They were talking at the top of their voices, so Hashknife sneaked away, laughing. Sleepy had escaped. By the light of a match Hashknife examined his horse and found that it wore a Bar 77 brand, belonging to old Sam Hodges.
“I’ve got a good horse and no place to go,” he told himself.
He leaned against the hitch rack and tried to figure out what to do, but the lack of sleep had muddled his brain until he thought in circles.
“Got to have some sleep or lose my place in the procession.” He rubbed his nose and considered things. He did not dare go to the little hotel, and he did not want to sleep out in the open. Then he got an inspiration. Leaving the horse at the rack, he went around back of the buildings until he came to the sheriff’s stable. Cautiously he went inside and climbed into the loft. There was plenty of nice soft hay.
He crawled back to the rear and started to burrow down, when his hand came in contact with human flesh. It was a man’s face. Hashknife’s hand stole slowly back to his gun and he waited for the man to make a move. But instead of a move, the man said:
“Lemme alone, will yuh? ’S funny a feller can’t sleep.”
“Sleepy!” blurted Hashknife. “Is this you?”
“Go sleep. Who in —— do yuh think it is—Rip Van Winkle?”
And their snores blended thankfully.
Marsh Hartwell was at home that night when Bert Allen, of the Circle V, rode in and told him of the jailbreak. Allen was on his way back to the dead-line, and stopped only long enough to tell what had happened in Totem City.