The man pointed at Blackwood, who stood beside the porch, guarded by another cowboy.
“Him?” Hashknife squinted at Blackwood seriously. “Pardner, I—I dunno. He kept out of this. He admits that he mis-branded calves for Easton, and we could likely send him—” Hashknife shook his head slowly. “Lookin’ at it from a cold-blooded angle, suppose we give him his horse and tell him to git to —— out of here.”
“But he’s a rustler!” exclaimed another cowman.
“That’s a fact,” nodded Hashknife. “That sure is a fact. He admits it, don’t he?”
Hashknife looked around at his listeners.
“How many of us would admit the truth?”
Somewhere in the crowd a man laughed and smiles began to appear. Hashknife had won his point. He turned to Blackwood, who could scarcely believe his ears.
“Blackwood, you’re free to drift. I ain’t preachin’ to you, but kinda remember what might ’a’ happened.”
“You mean—” Blackwood licked his dry lips. “You mean, I’m free to—go?”
“You’ve got good ears, old-timer.”