“Just a minute,” said Jack. “I’d kinda like to know who you two fellers are.”
“Well—” Hashknife grinned slightly—“we’re not sheepherders, if that’ll help yuh any. We missed the place where the sheriff told us to turn off, and mebbe it was lucky that we did. We was headin’ for Turkey Track sidin’, wherever that is.”
“I can show yuh how to get there,” offered Jack. “Go out of my gate, turn to the left and foller that old road to the Turkey Track ranch. It turns and crosses the river leadin’ right to the sidin’. Yuh can’t miss it.”
“Uh-huh, thanks,” nodded Hashknife. “’Pears to me that there’s a lot of folks around here that have confidence in us. The sheriff told us we couldn’t miss that trail, too.”
They walked out abruptly, mounted their horses and turned to the left, following the old road.
“What do yuh make of that outfit?” asked Sleepy, as they gave the horses a free rein and spurred into a gallop.
“It’s got me pawin’ my chain,” said Hashknife. “Kinda looks like the little lady was goin’ home to pa, but the cinch turned, and ag’in she’s in the bosom of her family. Right pretty sort of a girl.”
“And the husband looks like he’d been kinda pawed around, too,” said Sleepy. “He had blood on his face and a gun in his hand. And he wondered if we were sheepherders, Hashknife.”
“Well, it’s none of our business, Sleepy. That hubby is a right snappy sort of a jigger, and he might be bad medicine.”
“Do yuh reckon there’s a sheep and cattle war on here?”