‘Quien sabe? He ain’t been here long enough for anybody to find out. Hello, Bunty.’
Bunty Smith came over to the bar, glanced quickly at Hashknife, and returned Red’s greeting. Red turned to Hashknife.
‘I dunno yore name, pardner; but whatever it is, this is Bunty Smith, one of the stage drivers. Bunty’s the owner of the stage line, and drives every other day.’
‘My name’s Hartley,’ smiled Hashknife, and shook hands with Bunty.
‘We was jist talkin’ about young Morgan,’ said Red.
‘Oh, that damn fool! Is he still alive?’
‘Live enough to knock Spike Cahill out.’
‘You love to lie, don’tcha, Red?’
Red explained what had happened that morning, and Bunty apologized by buying a drink.
‘That tenderfoot shore had me moppin’ my brow,’ laughed Bunty. ‘I still think he’s loco. Hartley, did yuh hear about him headin’ for town on one of my horses, and failin’ off on his head in front of the Lane ranch-house?’