“Follerin’ Sleepy. Part Eskimo. Kinda hankers for home scenes. What’s gone wrong in the saloon?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Windy peers over the edge of the sidewalk and gets dusted with a bullet. Then he ducks down low and reaches for his cigaret-papers.
“Had a killin’ over there a while ago. My boss, old Mike Haley, mingles lead with Blazer Thorn, who own that —— Bar 20, and they both cashes in.
“Then some of the Bar 20 slaves gits into their heads that they must do something naughty with their six-guns, and I— I dunno whether anybody else hooked a harp or not. Most of the Bar 20 are inside the saloon, except one which is on the roof of the gamblin’-house.”
“He ain’t up there now,” says Hashknife; “chased him over the edge. One of ’em got in a wagon-box over there, but I made the old box leak and he sloped.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Windy, sad-like. “That was me.”
“I begs yore pardon,” says Hashknife. “Why didn’t yuh holler?”
“Holler ——! I didn’t have none comin’. I thought you was some more of them Bar 20’s, so I circled to get yuh from behind, but I got a look at yuh and then I knowed you was just company comin’ to our party.”
“How many in your outfit, Windy?”