“Well, did yuh bring any messages from the Bar 20, Hashknife?” I asks.
“Uh-huh—two. Long distance, as yuh might say.”
“Meanin’ what?” inquires Windy. Hashknife pulls his saddle over to him and yanks it around. Then he points to a long jagged rip in the fork, where a bullet plowed its way. Then he points to a jagged hole, drilled plumb through the right side of the cantle.
“Read ’em for youselves,” says he, grinning. “The first one busted into the fork and the next one just grazed my boot as I flipped off the saddle.”
“Where?” asks Windy.
“Just across the Cow Crick. I reckon it’s Cow Crick. I’m just goin’ up the far bank, when I gets reminded that I ain’t wanted. I humps out of the saddle before the next message arrives. I sure comes close to gettin’ peeled. I lit low down behind the bank and my bronc went across the crick into some willers. I sure tried to spot that bushwhacker, but he was too far away. A magpie gave him away by flyin’ over his location and then doin’ a upward twist, but there wasn’t much between him and me, and the danged fool shoots too close for comfort. Then I had to chase that fool bronc for half a mile before I got my hands on him, and I got a blister on my heel—dang the luck!”
“You ought to cuss your luck,” says Windy. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Must be a big blister,” complains Hashknife. “Got my feet wet, too.”
“I hope you’re satisfied,” says I, and Hashknife nods.
“Uh-huh, I’m satisfied of one thing, Sleepy.”