Hashknife turned and fired his last shot at them, as Sleepy whirled the horse into the yard of Jack Hartwell’s place and rode up to the front of the building, where Jack was standing, wondering what the shooting was all about.
They fairly fell off the horse, shoved Jack into the house and slammed the door behind them. But the riders circled wide of the gate and went back the way they came.
“What—what was the trouble?” stammered Jack.
“Got any shells for a forty-five?” asked Hashknife calmly.
Jack shook his head. He carried a forty-four.
“But what was the matter?” he demanded.
“I heard a lot of shootin’ and—”
“So did we,” laughed Sleepy. “They killed a horse for us. They might ’a’ just been foolin’, but they sure play rough.”
“They sure did,” laughed Hashknife, brushing the dust off himself. “I lit so hard I almost knocked the heels off my old boots.”
They grinned at each other, and Hashknife, turned to Jack.