‘The only bad move Lane made was to take Ben’s gun and horse,’ said the sheriff. ‘I reckon he was just drunk enough to take ’em. Kind of an Injun idea; kill ’em and take everythin’.’
Sleepy was humped up in a chair, looking sadly at Hashknife. Sleepy knew what this would mean. Hashknife was leaning forward, an eager expression in his gray eyes, his long, lean fingers caressing the knees of his worn chaps. Gone were all the signs of weariness from their long journey.
Fate had again thrown them into a troubled range; Hashknife Hartley was in his element. But Hashknife was not a man-hunter. He had no interest in the outlaw, on whose head was a price.
‘This young Lane ain’t got Injun blood, has he?’ asked Hashknife.
‘No-o-o,’ drawled Lem. ‘But he was drunk enough to be a fool that day. He probably knew we’d be on his trail; so he heeled himself with Ben’s gun and horse. Me and Noah was at his ranch when he came home, and he said he had fixed one of the 6X6 gang.’
‘And when the 6X6 gang came after him, he wasn’t in the house,’ added Noah. ‘Must ’a’ went straight through the house, cut out through the hills, and picked up Ben’s horse, ’cause he left his own bronc at the corral.’
‘If it was self-defense, why didn’t he give himself up to the law?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Because he’s a nester,’ said Lem quickly. ‘He had an idea that the law wouldn’t give him an even break.’
‘I can understand that,’ agreed Hashknife. ‘And since the killin’, the 6X6 has been hangin’ around the nester’s place at night, eh?’
‘Y’betcha. They want young Lane. And Peter Morgan backs their play, Hartley. Some day him and old man Lane will meet for a show-down.’