“Which entirely makes up my mind,” grins Hashknife. “Why don’t you rise to object, Sleepy?”
“Go ahead,” says I. “Ventilation won’t hurt yuh none, I reckon.”
Hashknife went. About noon the next day he saddles his bronc, refuses to let us go with him, and rides away.
“You ain’t got a lick of sense, Hashknife!” yells Windy.
“I know it,” says Hashknife. “This is a job that takes brains, so I’m leavin’ the brains behind me to keep safe.”
“Now, what did he mean, Sleepy?” asks Windy.
“I dunno. The longer I lives with that blamed hatchet-faced cross between a danged fool and a heavenly angel, the less I sabe his wau-wau. Mebbe he wants to commit suicide, but I’m bettin’ money that he ain’t.”
It was about two hours before we seen him come into sight. He pokes into the ranch, takes his saddle off and comes up to the porch, dragging the saddle with him.
“Well, yuh got back, I see,” grins Windy.
“Yuh got good eyesight, Windy. Awful hot today. Got a blister on my heel, too.”