“Next time I go out with you, Sleepy, I’m goin’ t’ pack a spade,” says Hashknife. “You sure does invite interment.”
We hugs the rocks for a while, and then peers out again. Splat! A bullet flattens right beside my ear and I slides back.
Then I scratches my ear, looks at the lead spatter on the rock and cusses some more.
“We-e-e-ell,” drawls Hashknife, grinning, “I reckon you’ll get sensible now. That only misses by six inches. Huh!”
Hashknife rolls over, pokes into a rock crevice, and begins to climb. It’s only about seven feet to the top of the rock, and me and Windy stays there looking up at the soles of his boots. He stops. We sees him kinda anchor his knee against the side of the rock and then his rifle sings its little song. A empty shell rattles down at us and we hears him chuckle. Then he slides down to us and huddles down.
“Ketchum bad-man,” he grunts, stuffing another shell into the magazine of his rifle.
“Didja hit him?” asks Windy.
“If I didn’t, he must be a danged fool to upset the way he did.”
Spo-o-o-w! A bullet burned across my shoulder and whizzed into the air off the rock behind me. I dropped flat and remembered every cuss word I ever heard.
“And I raised him, Windy,” says Hashknife when I runs out of breath.