Together they examined the woman, who groaned slightly as they lifted her to a sitting position. It was Molly Hartwell. She blinked at the matches and tried to get to her feet.
“You better take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “You’ve got a cut on yore head, which has bled quite a lot, ma’am.”
“I—I know,” she said painfully. “I guess I didn’t have the cinch tight enough and the saddle turned with me. I tried to go back home, but I got so dizzy I had to lie down.”
“Where do yuh live?” asked Hashknife.
Molly Hartwell peered out into the gloom and was forced to admit that she did not know.
“It is either—well, I don’t know. Anyway, it is on this road.”
“Well, it ain’t behind us—’less it’s hid,” declared Sleepy. “So it must be the way we’re travelin’.”
Hashknife assisted her on to his horse, while Sleepy went back and got the valise. It was a cumbersome object to carry, and the broken straps made it almost impossible for him to keep from spilling its contents.
It was not far back to the Hartwell place. Sleepy opened the gate, while Hashknife led his horse up to the house. It was then that the valise refused to remain intact any longer. It skidded out of Sleepy’s arms and the contents spilled all about. And as fast as he picked up one article another fell out.
Finally he tied his horse to the gate-post, so he could use both hands. The valise had evidently been packed with care, but in upsetting it had jumbled things until it was impossible for Sleepy to get them all back.