“It’s only six or seven miles on a straight line, but yuh can’t go thataway,” explained the sheriff, leading the way back to the main street. “Yuh go straight north out of town, follerin’ the road kinda northwest. Then yuh turn at the first road runnin’ northeast. About a mile along on that road you’ll find a trail that leads due east. Foller that and it’ll take yuh straight to Turkey Track sidin’.”
“This is doggone white of yuh,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand. “We ain’t the kind that forget, Sheriff. Yore broncs will be there at the corral. And some day, we’ll try real hard to return the favor.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the sheriff. “I hope yuh catch yore train. Adios!”
They rode out into the night. It was light enough for them to follow the dusty road, but not light enough for them to distinguish the kind of country they were traveling through.
“I hope they’ve got that danged car on the track, and are headin’ East right now,” said Sleepy, peering into the night. “I like this country, Hashknife.”
“After seein’ as much of it as you have, I don’t wonder.”
“Not that,” said Sleepy seriously. “There’s punchers packin’ Winchesters, and nobody tellin’ yuh what a —— of a good country this is. I tell yuh, there’s trouble brewin’. I can smell it, Hashknife.”
“Then I hope there’s more than one car off the track, and that we can get to sleep on that caboose before the train starts. I can build up all the trouble I can use. If there’s trouble around here, leave it alone. My old dad used to say—
“‘If yuh ain’t got no business of yore own, yuh ain’t qualified to monkey with somebody else’s.’”
“That’s a fine sentiment,” laughed Sleepy. “But it don’t work in our case. We’ve been monkeyin’ with other folks’ business for several years, haven’t we?”