“Now, we’ve got to face the sheriff,” said Hashknife, loosening his belt. “I suppose he’ll rise up and tear his hair when he finds that his roan horse is a casualty.”
“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy dismally. “He’ll tell us that the roan was worth five hundred dollars and that it could run faster than anythin’ on four legs.”
“Sure. If he don’t tell us that, he’ll swear that it was a family heirloom. It was, all right. The fastest move it made was when it started fallin’. Oh, well, human nature is queer.”
They paid for their meal and walked outside. The sheriff had just ridden in and was talking to old Sam Hodges, of the Bar 77, in front of Hork’s store. The sheriff still had the saddle in his arms.
“There’s our first difficulty, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go right over and have it out with him.”
The sheriff scowled at them, as they came across the street.
“Hyah, sheriff,” grinned Hashknife. “You must be anticipatin’ somethin’ to be packin’ an extra saddle with yuh thataway.”
“Yeah?” The sheriff was not to be mollified. “Mebbe you fellers don’t know where I got this saddle, eh? I got it off my roan horse.”
“Oh, is that so? By golly, you got out there quick.”
“Mebbe I did. And then what?”