‘Tha’s question.’
Spike Cahill was not feeling just like a fighting man now. He rather wanted to sleep.
‘Let’s turn their horshes loose firs’,’ suggested Bert. ‘Set ’m on foot, eh?’
They went staggering along the corral fence to the old stable, where they had another drink.
‘You stand guard at the door,’ instructed Spike.
‘I’ll guard it, y’betcha,’ agreed Bert. ‘I’m bes’ li’l guard yuh ever sheen.’
The big stable door was unlocked. There was quite a wind blowing, and it was not very warm. Both cowboys were carrying their guns in their hands. Spike opened the big door, swinging it back against the wall, and went inside, while Bert stood just inside the stable, with a cocked gun in his hand, trying to tune his ears to all sounds.
Even in the darkness it did not take Spike long to discover that the stable was empty. He bumped his nose against the side of a stall, and swore drunkenly. And one of his pawing hands came in contact with a set of harness, which obligingly fell off a peg and draped around him.
‘Wha’s goin’ on in there?’ demanded Bert in a sepulchral whisper. ‘Speak, or I’ll sh-shoot.’
‘Shoot if you mus’,’ wailed Spike. ‘I’m helpl’s. Got a breechin’ ’round my neck and a hame in one of my boots.’