CHAPTER VII: HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY DRIFT IN
Along a sandy road, which leads northward from Cañonville, came two cowboys that afternoon. They were not traveling fast, because of the fact that both horses were footsore and weary. The fact of the matter was, they were cowboy ‘tourists,’ heading south for the winter.
The one on the tall, gray horse whistled unmusically between his teeth and surveyed the landscape through a pair of level, gray eyes. He was also tall, thin, with a long, rather serious face, generous nose and a wide mouth. His well-worn Stetson was tilted forward over his eyes, shading his face from the western sun. He wore a pale blue shirt, a nondescript vest, which was little more than a drape on each side of his chest, and a pair of bat-wing chaps. Around his waist was a weathered, hand-made cartridge belt, supporting an old holster, from which protruded the black handle of a big Colt gun. His boots were extra high of heel, and his spurs had been dulled until there was little left except a circle of steel.
The other man was shorter, broader of shoulder, with a deep-lined, grin-wrinkled face, out of which looked a pair of innocent blue eyes. Their raiment was about the same, their riding rigs much alike. The shorter man rode a chunky sorrel, which was forced to singlefoot in order to keep up with the swinging walk of the tall gray.
‘Ain’t seen a cow for forty miles, Hashknife,’ said ‘Sleepy’ Stevens, the short one of the duo, breaking a long silence.
‘Hashknife’ Hartley turned in his saddle and smiled at Sleepy.
‘Mebby it’s a lucky thing for the cows, cowboy. Any cow that could live in the country we’ve gone through would have to imagine a lot. But we didn’t come lookin’ for cows—we came for the climate.’
‘Shore,’ admitted Sleepy.
‘And this is climate.’
‘In the daytime,’ admitted Sleepy. ‘Last night I dang near froze. When we hit a town, I’m goin’ to have at a reg’lar bed. Didn’t that shepherd tell us it was only twenty miles to Cañonville?’