“That’s what is called lapse of memory,” said Hodges.
Hashknife glanced quickly at the old man, and they both grinned. Hodges crossed the room to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“My name is Hodges—Sam Hodges of the Bar 77.”
“Mine’s Hartley—Hashknife Hartley of anywhere,” grinned the lanky cowboy as they shook hands. “Sam Hodges, meet Sleepy Stevens. He belongs to the same outfit that I do.”
“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Sleepy, holding out his hand.
They shook hands gravely, and the three of them walked out of the store together. Casey Steil had mounted his horse and was riding out of town.
“My place is almost due east from here,” said Hodges as they stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. “Anybody can direct yuh. We’d like to have yuh come out, gents. The Bar 77 ain’t no millionaire place, but we eat three times per day, and there’s always plenty of room at the table.”
“That’s sure nice of yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “We’ll likely be around here a few days.”
“Fine. Come out any old time.”
The old man got into his buckboard and rattled out of town.