Hashknife leaned against the corral fence and looked at the horses. There were seven of them, nosing around at loose wisps of hay. Hashknife grinned as his eyes shifted to four of them, which seemed little interested in anything. Cautiously he worked around the side of the corral and went over to the stable, where he glued his ear to a crack.
Satisfied that there was no one in the barn, he circled the building, with the intention of taking a look at the bunk house; but the fairly close sound of a revolver shot caused him to draw back and run around to the opposite side, where he peeked around the corner.
A black horse, now almost white with lather, stumbled into the yard, its rider swaying sidewise in the saddle. It was Eph King. Behind him came Marsh Hartwell, Jack Hartwell, Sudden Smithy and Sunshine Gallagher. The sheriff drove his horse in close to King and caught the big sheepman before he could fall from his saddle. The others were off their horses immediately and helped place King on the ground.
Hashknife did not leave his position. Some one yelled a question from the bunk house, and Hashknife saw Slim De Larimore, Curt, Steil and Allison running from the bunk house to the group around King.
Hashknife jerked back and began rolling a cigaret, while his eyebrows drew together in a frown of concentration. He lighted the cigaret and peeked out again. The crowd was still standing around the prostrate figure of King, and Hashknife could hear them arguing over what had happened. Sunshine was talking loud enough to have been heard a quarter of a mile away.
“I suspected that King was the leader of the rustlers. By golly, we sure got him, didn’t we? Eh, Slim? Sure gave us one awful run.”
“That’s all right,” said Marsh Hartwell. “But I want to know who is doin’ all that shootin’ down there. Eph King was probably the leader of the rustlers—but who drove him away? It wasn’t our gang.”
Hashknife stepped away from the stable and walked toward them. Jack and Sunshine were facing him and saw him coming, but neither of them gave any indication of it. Hashknife was unhurried, smoking calmly on his cigaret. The sheriff was talking now.
“I dunno, Marsh. Mebbe it was some of our gang. We better leave King here under guard and go back.”
“One of my men will take care of him,” said De Larimore, and turned to see Hashknife standing within twenty feet of him.