The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and turned to look at old Sam, who was masticating rapidly and trying to figure out what it all meant. Then he spat explosively.
“But who in —— was the shooters?”
“They never said,” replied Hashknife blandly. “Mebbe they thought it wouldn’t make any difference with us. But I’d rather be shot by somebody I know than by a total stranger. It ain’t etiquette.”
“It’s sure beyond me.” The sheriff shook his head. “Just why somebody desires yore death is more than I can figure out. Do you fellers know anybody around here?”
“Reckon not,” grinned Hashknife. “We never were here before.”
“And we ain’t comin’ ag’in,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t mind havin’ one or two men shootin’ at me, but when they come in flocks—I’m through.”
“Well, they never scared the grins out of yuh,” observed old Sam Hodges.
“Might as well grin,” said Hashknife. “Outside of the sheriff’s roan horse, nobody got hurt; and we’ll pay for that.”
“Yuh will not,” declared the sheriff. “It wasn’t no fault of yours, Hartley. I’d give all my horses to know why yuh was shot at. Kinda looks to me like somebody mistook yuh for me and Sunshine.”
“Somebody that wants to wipe out the sheriff’s office?” asked old Sam quickly. “Sudden, I’ll betcha that was it. Find yore enemy and you’ll find the men that killed the roan.”