They moved back into the store and sat down on the counter.
“Where did you ever know Al Curt?” asked Jack.
“He’s originally from Montana,” said Hashknife. “We knowed him in Idaho. They called him Wide-loop up there. Steil used to be around Wyomin’, Nevada, and maybe he nosed up into Idaho, too.”
“They’ve been here about a year,” said Jack, “but they’ve played straight, I think. They both work for the Turkey Track.”
“Owned by the duke of somethin’-or-other, ain’t it?” grinned Sleepy.
“Slim De Larimore. He’s no duke.”
“Steil and Curt work for him, eh?”
“Yeah. There’s another feller named Allison.”
“Allison? I reckon he’s a stranger to us. I don’t like to knock anybody, but I’d sure like to tip this De Larimore person off to watch Steil and Curt. They’d steal him blind if they had a chance.”
“They’ll not steal much from Slim. He’s cast-iron, that feller. I’ll betcha that nitric acid wouldn’t faze him.”