“By golly, you do deduct once in a while,” laughed Hashknife. “Let ’em rustle. As I said before, we’re chasin’ a train, not trouble. C’mon.”
“Yeah, and c’mon fast,” chuckled Sleepy. “That impudent son-of-a-gun headed down this road, I’ll betcha. Shake up that old bed spring yo’re ridin’, Hashknife and he’ll have to be a wing shot to hit us.”
Together they went down the old road as fast as the two horses could run, each man carrying a heavy revolver in his right hand. The old road was only a pair of unused ruts, but the horses had good footing. A quarter of a mile below where the shot had been fired at them, a rider swung across the road and faded into the tall sage, but whether he was a rustler or not they were unable to say.
They drew up at the bank of the Lo Lo River and let the horses make their own crossing. The river was shallow at this point. It was only a short distance from the river to the old loading corrals at Turkey Track siding, but there was no sign of the cattle-train.
“Empty is the cra-a-adul—baby’s gon-n-ne,” sang Hashknife in a melancholy voice as they dismounted and sat down on the corral fence.
“Who the —— told you you could sing?” asked Sleepy.
“A feller with a voice like mine don’t have to be told. It’s instinct, cowboy, instinct.”
“Extinct,” corrected Sleepy. “Like do-do-bird and muzzle-loadin’ pistols. I wonder if that jigger was a rustler, or was he just nervous. Some folks are thataway, Hashknife.”
“All rustlers are, Sleepy. The more I see of this country the more I envy Stumpy, Nebrasky and Napoleon in their nice, easy-ridin’ caboose. Right now I hanker for that good old dog house. Sleepy, I hankers for it so strong that I becomes melancholy and must sing.”
Hashknife cleared his throat delicately and began: