Hork grinned and sold them the cartridges. They filled their belts and guns, and he watched them curiously, but Hork was a life-long resident of the cattleland, and did not ask questions. It was not often that strangers came to Totem City and bought revolver cartridges.
But Hashknife and Sleepy did not enlighten him. They knew he was aching for them to talk about themselves, but they kept a discreet silence. A little, barefooted boy came in to buy some kerosene oil.
“Did they kill any sheepherders last night, Mister Hork?” he asked excitedly. “Ma wants to know, she said.”
“I dunno, Jimmy. Don’t reckon they did. You ain’t got no relations fightin’ for the sheep, have yuh?”
“Me?” shrilled Jimmy. “By jing, I ain’t! I hate ’em.”
Hork laughed and went into a back room to get the oil.
“It’s quite a battle, ain’t it, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, it ain’t—yet. Pa says she’ll be a humdinger. Which side are you on, mister?”
“I reckon I’m on my side, Jimmy.”
“Uh-huh.” Jimmy scratched the calf of his leg with the big toe of his other foot. “I’ll betcha they’ll make Jack Hartwell hard to catch.”