“Wire? Yeah, I got a big spool of small wire—smaller than bailin’-wire, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s the stuff, Skelton. Sleepy, you find a pick and shovel.”
When the desired articles were produced, Hashknife dug four small holes; spading up the top soil on each for a space of about three feet square. He got four stakes, which he drove into the ground, and fastened a wire to each; piling the dirt to cover the stakes.
These spaded places were in a semi-circle in front of the porch, and about ten feet apart. Hashknife worked swiftly, whistling unmusically between his teeth, while Skelton and Sleepy watched him curiously. When the work was all finished, Hashknife took the wires back into the house and fastened them to a chair.
“Looney as a shepherd!” exploded Sleepy. “Can you beat that? Whatcha think you are—a medicine man?”
“Now, come on—fast!” grunted Hashknife. “Skelton, you stay here with Lonesome, and we’ll try and be back ahead of the procession.”
He turned and raced for the corral, still carrying the pick and shovel, while Sleepy, protesting at the top of his voice, followed. Swiftly they saddled. Hashknife mounted, holding the pick and shovel across the fork of his saddle in front of him.
“Headin’ for the graveyard, Sleepy!” he yelped.
“Y’betcha,” grunted Sleepy meaningly as he spurred after him.
Skelton stared open-mouthed as they galloped past the house and headed toward town. It was beyond him. He studied the four wires, shook his head, and going inside he squirted some oil into the old riot-gun. That done he sat down to wait.