“This here is worth waitin’ for,” grinned Sleepy. “I wish I had my old .45-70, Hashknife. This here .30-30 is all very fine, but them bullets mushroom too quick. They don’t bore through them old weathered boards. It’s like throwin’ rocks down there.”
Wham!
A bullet struck just in front of Sleepy, filling his eyes with dirt. He rolled over, clawing at his face, trying to blink the gravel out of his eyes.
“Somebody throwed the rock back at yuh, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife humorously. “You forget that there’s desperate men in that shack, cowboy.”
A man ran out of the shack and headed for the corral, where several horses were tied. Twice he swerved, when bullets whizzed past his ears, but before he could reach the horses he lunged sidewise and went flat on his face.
“Must be gettin’ hot inside the shack,” observed Hashknife, as he stuffed some cartridges into the loading gate of his rifle.
“I feel sorry for them poor —— down there.”
Sleepy squinted through his tears and spat painfully.
“Go ahead and feel sorry for ’em, if yuh want to, Hashknife. And if yuh happen to have any sorrow left, pass it around to one whose vision is filled with dancin’ stars. Talk about spots in front of yore eyes!”
Hashknife turned his head and looked back up the slope. Eph King was running toward his horse, and as Hashknife watched him he climbed into his saddle and spurred into a gallop. Hashknife squinted wonderingly. King was traveling rapidly now, and Hashknife watched him crossing the ridge behind them.