“There is a Herman,” nodded Lonesome. “Short feller, with a big nose.”
“That’s him!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Ought to ’a’ been hung fifteen years before he got old enough to wear long pants. Say, how much of the 88 does Easton own?”
“I dunno. He kinda took charge, and—and——”
“You mean he’s kept you drunk for a year or two and jist kinda nudged you out of everythin’. Shot your nerve all to —— with hooch, and hoodled you out of every thing you own.”
Lonesome stared down at the floor, but said nothing.
“Has he got a bill of sale from you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lonesome. “If he did, he got it from me when I was drunk.”
“And he could ’a’ got it from you any old time durin’ the last year or so,” declared Hashknife, “’cause you ain’t been sober in all that time.”
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Lonesome angrily. “It’s my ranch?”
“What about Jane Lee?”