‘Well,’ said the optimistic Sleepy, ‘they ain’t got ’em in jail yet, Nan.’
‘But they will have. Dad and Walter are not far away from here.’
‘I’d like to have a talk with ’em before the sheriff gets his hands on ’em,’ said Hashknife.
‘What for?’ asked Nan.
‘Oh, just to talk about things. I’d like to get their version of things ahead of the rest.’
Later that day Hashknife and Sleepy talked things over from the top-pole of the corral fence.
‘I tell yuh, it’s no puzzle,’ declared Sleepy. ‘Old man Lane killed Pete Morgan, jist as sure as a Californian will lie about his climate. Of course, Pete had no business bein’ here. He’d been warned to stay away—and didn’t. If me and you was on a jury, we’d turn him loose—because we don’t hate a nester.[’]
‘Likewise, this here Ben Leach got his needin’s. Hunted for trouble, and found it. Self-defense of course; but yuh never can convince these natives that Lane didn’t bushwhack Leach. Of course, Lane made a mistake in takin’ the horse and gun, but he was drunk and mad.’
It was a long speech for Sleepy to make. Hashknife lifted his brows in mock astonishment.
‘Yore gettin’ kinda technical, ain’t yuh, Sleepy?’