“Lawyers costs money, Hashknife.”
“This one won’t. I packed this whippoorwill out of a tight corner on the Barbary Coast one night and I’m bettin’ he ain’t forgot it. He comes danged near bein’ a sailor, y’betcha. Crimps, they calls ’em, and I sure put a crimp into about six of ’em.
“He wasn’t very heavy and I just had enough hooch under my belt to shoot straight, but at that I had to hit two with my gun-barrel. If M. J. Haley is at the em-po-ree-um, I’m bettin’ that Billy Winters will find him. Sounds like a gamblin’-house to me.”
“All right, cowboy,” grins Windy. “You do the writin’, will yuh? I ain’t noways pencil-wise—me.”
Hashknife writes the letter, explaining the best he can, and we posts it the next day in Sundown City. We don’t meet none of the Bar 20 bunch, but we does run into the sheriff and he seems glad to see us.
“Nice weather,” says Hashknife, and then adds, “I like it hot.”
“Yeah?” says the sheriff, and then he says to Windy—
“Baldy Willis got shot yesterday.”
“Did he?” says Windy. “Accidental, I suppose. Gol dang it, sheriff, they ought to have a school where a feller like him can learn to handle a gun and—”