“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife did not seem greatly interested in Casey Steil. He turned to Sleepy.
“Gimme yore Durham, cowboy. I scraped my pocket for that last smoke, and this coat of mine is all wool.”
“Go and buy yoreself some tobacco, why don’tcha?” complained Sleepy. “They sell it in that store.”
“All right, yuh doggoned miser.”
Hashknife stepped up on the sidewalk and went into the store. After a moment Sleepy followed him, with old Sam limping along behind.
Casey Steil was at the counter, talking with Hork, who had taken several boxes of cartridges off the shelf for his inspection. Steil glanced quickly at Hashknife and busied himself reading the labels on the boxes.
Hork sold Hashknife some tobacco, and when he turned back to Steil, the Turkey Track cowpuncher had walked away and was heading for the door. Hork grunted peevishly and put the boxes of cartridges back on the shelf.
Old Sam Hodges had been watching Steil, and he knew that Steil had walked away to prevent Hashknife from speaking to him. But Hashknife merely glanced toward Steil’s disappearing back and began rolling a cigaret.
“Wanted shells kinda bad,” observed Hork sarcastically. “Acted like he was half asleep. Didn’t even seem to know what sizes he wanted. And then—” Hork threw the last box back on a shelf—“he went out without any.”