“It was Steil or Curt,” said a man from the Totem. “I wasn’t where I could see which one it was.”
“Was they shootin’ at you, Hartley?”
“At me?” Hashknife looked blankly at the sheriff. “Oh, no. Why would they shoot at me? Prob’ly got a drink or two too many and wanted to see if a six-shooter would go off.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff was not satisfied, but realized that he would never get Hashknife to admit anything he did not want to. He looked at the book, folded it up and frowned at Hashknife.
“I don’t sabe you fellers,” he declared complainingly. “Last night they were yellin’ for yore blood and—maybe they are yet, for all I know—and you go around actin’ like somebody had handed yuh the keys to the town. Ain’tcha got a lick of sense?”
“Not a lick,” said Hashknife seriously. “When they passed around the gall we took so much that they passed us up on the brains. A feller can’t have everythin’, sheriff.”
The sheriff’s ears grew red. He knew that some one had told them what he had said about them. So he nodded in agreement, turned and went back to his office, wondering aloud what in —— Hashknife had taken the brand registry for. Then he remembered that they had talked about the JN outfit. He looked for it in the registry and found it belonged to a Jack Noonan. He threw the book aside and sprawled on a cot to finish out his interrupted siesta.
While the others accepted Hashknife’s explanation, Sleepy knew that Hashknife had sprawled on the sidewalk for a purpose. The tall cowboy grinned seriously over his cigaret, as he led Sleepy and Jack to the livery stable, where they got their horses.
“We’re goin’ to take a little ride,” explained Hashknife.