‘Oh, I’ll bet your feet are worn raw,’ said Nan. ‘With those high-heel boots on.’
‘Feet are all right. Here we are.’
Rex slid down, and Hashknife lifted Nan from the saddle.
The kitchen table was just as Hashknife and Sleepy had left it, after the bullet had driven the milk can between Sleepy’s eyes. Both Nan and Rex were still wobbling, and watched Hashknife build a fire in the kitchen stove. He put on a big kettle of water.
‘I can get the meal,’ said Nan. ‘I feel fine again.’
‘Start in with some coffee, Nan. There’s half of that pie in the oven. I could drink a pot of coffee myself. Show me where yuh keep yore writin’ paper and ink, will yuh, Nan?’
They found it in the drawer of the table in the living-room, along with an old pen.
‘You fix the coffee,’ said Hashknife. ‘I’ve got to write a note.’
He placed a lamp on the table, while Nan went back to the kitchen where Rex was removing what was left of his shoes. Hashknife took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, propped it up against a book, and filled his pen.
He wrote slowly on the cheap sheet of paper; so slowly that it appeared as though he might be copying something. His brow was knitted deeply, almost covering the gray eyes, as the broken pen-holder moved slowly in his cramped fingers.