“It was a —— of a joke,” continued Hashknife, “but was it a joke?”
“Whatcha mean?” snapped Blue.
“Mebbe I’ll tell you.” Hashknife was quite at his ease. “Old Lonesome Lee owned the Cross-L outfit—and a big thirst—a very big thirst. Bein’ drunk most of the time made it plumb easy for another man to hoodle him out of the brand, which was changed to the 88—for a reason.”
“That’s a —— lie!” snorted Easton. “Everybody knows that I——”
“About that time,” interrupted Hashknife, “this old 33 outfit begins to dwindle. Their cows don’t bring in no calves. Everybody hates Skelton, and he knows —— well that nobody is goin’ to help him find out where they went to. Somebody tries to buy him out. I reckon there was quite a few tryin’ to buy him out. About that time he gets shot at a few times. ’Pears to me that it’s a —— bad shot, or shootin’ to scare him.”
“Now, wait a minute!” interposed Blue. “If Skelton was losin’ cows and gettin’ shot at, why didn’t he come to me about it?”
“You?” Hashknife squinted at Blue and shook his head. “Mebbe you was busy at that time, sheriff.”
The inference was plain, and it drew a mild laugh. The crowd was interested in Hashknife’s story, and did not relish an interruption.
“Lonesome Lee has a daughter,” said Hashknife. “She’s a danged nice-lookin’ girl, too. Lonesome was too drunk to sabe things much, and this girl writes him letters, which somebody else reads—and answers. There was a photygraph, too, I reckon. Pretty girls ain’t any too plentiful.
“Then somebody killed Quinin Quinn, and a poor, drunken Swede cook was jailed for it.”