“This’n,” nodded Skelton, indicating Sleepy. “I’ve knowed Sleepy Stevens f’r a long time; and when he takes a pardner, I kinda backs this here pardner. Know what I mean, Blue?”
“Gotcha. What do you make of it, Doc?”
“He was shot twice, and he’s dead,” replied Doc. “I ain’t advancin’ any theory who done it, sheriff.”
“It’s a —— good thing we called yuh, Doc,” said Hashknife seriously. “I used to live in a place where we didn’t have no doctor, and it sure was ——. Why, I’ve knowed times when we kept dead men propped up around town for weeks—waitin’ to be sure they were dead. Lookin’ back at them days, I’m wonderin’ what killed ’em. Mebbe they was shot—I dunno.”
“Are you plumb ignorant, or jist actin’ smart?” asked the sheriff.
“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “that is the secret of my success. Nobody ever found out, and I couldn’t tell ’em, ’cause I didn’t know m’self.”
“Thasso?”
The sheriff’s jaw muscles bulged, like twin walnuts, and he hooked his thumbs into the waist-band of his overalls, as he squinted at Hashknife’s serious face.
“You came to a —— good place for to be found out.”
“Well, that’s right nice of you, sheriff. What do you reckon I ought to do for the information—kiss you?”