At the entrance to the obliterated graveyard Hashknife drew up and vaulted off his horse.
“Go to the point above that first curve, Sleepy,” he ordered. “Glue your eye to the road, and when you see ’em comin’—yell like —— and come runnin’.”
“Aw-w-w!” protested Sleepy disgustedly, but Hashknife, with a shovel in one hand and the pick in the other, was already through the wire fence and running toward the creek.
Sleepy yanked his horse around and rode swiftly away. Hashknife’s actions left little doubt in Sleepy Stevens’ mind but that he was crazy. Still, Hashknife had never failed in an emergency—yet.
Hashknife stopped near the bank of the little creek and studied the ground. The graveyard had been most thoroughly obliterated, but luckily the destroyers had only harrowed the ground where the graves had been. Hashknife was able to find the spot where the gambler, “Faro,” had been buried. Barney Stout had said that Faro was buried between the other graves and the creek.
Hashknife took off his coat and began digging. It was hot work, hard work. The ground was rocky and progress was slow, and Hashknife had a horror of digging into a grave. The old pick was dull and the spring was missing in the shovel. A rocky reef impeded his progress and he was forced to dig around it.
Suddenly he dropped to his knees and began an examination which made his eyes sparkle. Every few moments his head would pop up like a prairie-dog, listening for Sleepy’s yell of warning.
Then it came—the long-drawn “Yee-hoo-o-o!” cowboy yell, and he saw Sleepy riding swiftly down the side of the hill toward the road.
Hashknife sprang to his feet and ran toward the fence, drawing on his coat as he ran. He was in his saddle when Sleepy galloped up.
“Everybody in the county comin’!” panted Sleepy. “And they’re sure comin’ in a hurry.”