‘You ain’t worryin’ about the two kids, are yuh?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly worryin’, Sleepy; but I wish they had waited until we got back.’
‘Well, my gosh, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt ’em.’
‘I hope not. Better cut that pie.’
Sleepy took it from the oven and cut two generous slices, which soon disappeared. But even the apple pie did not serve to raise Hashknife’s spirits, and Sleepy laughed at him.
‘You look like them pictures of Abe Lincoln when yuh get that serious expression,’ grinned Sleepy. ‘All yuh need is some whiskers and a plug hat.’
Sleepy slid down in his chair and began rolling a cigarette. He was just running his tongue along the edge of the paper, when something hit him square in the face, knocking him over backwards, and he heard the clatter of glass, the thud of a shot.
Hashknife flung himself away from the table, going backwards in his chair, but landed on his hands and knees. His cheek was slightly cut by flying glass from the window, but he did not know it. He sprang to his feet, swept up the rifle, which stood in the corner, and ran through the living-room.
Without hesitation he flung the door open and sprang off the porch. Just out beyond the corral was a horse, going away at a sharp trot, and Hashknife thought he saw a rider on it. He threw up the Winchester and fired twice. The flash of the gun blinded him for a moment, and he was unable to see what had happened, but he could not hear the horse now.
Now he ran back into the house, flinging the rifle aside. Sleepy was still on his back, his feet sticking up over the overturned chair, apparently unconscious.