“This is Saturday.”
“We should have gone east from town,” said Jack. “Instead of comin’ out here, crossin’ the river at the bridge, we should have followed the railroad track. It wouldn’t be very easy travelin’, but we wouldn’t have to cross the river.”
“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife, “but everybody would have known where we was headin’. Yuh see, Hartwell, I like to fool folks. It’s a lot of fun, don’tcha know it? And it’s kept me and Sleepy from lookin’ up at the daisy roots.”
“Like when yuh fell down a while ago, eh?”
“Probably. I didn’t want to down either of them jiggers. Right now they’re worth more alive than dead, for my purpose. And they think I’m dead or badly hurt—which makes it much better. I dunno which one of ’em fired the shot. I heard the bullet hit the building about twenty feet ahead of me.”
They crossed Slow Elk Creek near its mouth and came to the river, where they swam their horses across. From there it was only a short distance to Turkey Track siding, where they dismounted, tied their horses to the corral fence and sat down to have a smoke.
To the north they could see the timbered curves of Deer Creek, to the north and west the wide sweep of the Lo Lo range. To the north and east was the narrow, timbered valley, through which came the railroad from Medicine Tree, and beyond. Just across the river from them, about a mile and a half away, was the Turkey Track ranch, on the west bank of Deer Creek.
Hashknife seemed very thoughtful, as he scanned the country. He squinted toward the hazy outline of the main divide, where the break of Kiopo Pass was barely visible, and at the narrow valley to the northeast.
“Did yuh live here before the railroad came, Hartwell?” he asked.
“Yeah,” nodded Jack. “It hasn’t been here over six years.”