He swore feelingly, perspired copiously and finally tripped over the stack of white clothes. He came up with a handful of womanly garments, to be exact—a nightgown. It was of the voluminous kind, and its bulk forbade the shutting down of the valise cover.
Hashknife and the lady had gone into the house and lighted the lamp. Sleepy whistled to himself, as he slipped the nightgown over his head, ran his arms through the short sleeves, picked up the valise and started for the house. He had solved the transportation problem to his own satisfaction.
A man had ridden in at the rear of the house, but Sleepy had not seen him. He walked up to the open front door and stepped inside, just as Jack Hartwell came in through the rear door. Hashknife was standing near the table, looking at Mrs. Hartwell, who was sitting in a low rocker, her head held in her two hands.
Jack Hartwell’s clothes were torn and there was a smear of blood across his face, which gave him a leering expression. In his right hand he held a cocked revolver. His eyes strayed from his wife and Hashknife to Sleepy, who stood in the doorway dressed in a white gown, and holding the bulky valise in his two hands. For several moments, not a word was spoken. Then:
“Evenin’, pardner,” Sleepy spoke directly to Jack, who was staring at him wonderingly. “Ain’t you the feller I met in Cheyenne last year?”
Jack Hartwell shifted his feet nervously.
“No,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve never been in Cheyenne.”
“Neither have I,” said Sleepy innocently. “Both parties must be mistaken.”
Hartwell shoved away from the door and came closer to Hashknife.
“Who in —— are you? More sheepherders?”