Skelton shook his head.
“Ain’t a lot of extra hands around this country,” observed Blue. “Well, Doc, I reckon we better have Quinin moved into your place. Mind haulin’ him down there, Skelton?”
Skelton did not mind. He turned his team around and headed for the doctor’s office, with several men following. Hashknife and Sleepy rode across to a hitch-rack, tied their horses, and went into the War-Bonnet.
The War-Bonnet was a large place for a town the size of Caldwell, but it looked prosperous. There was not much activity during the day, so the place was nearly deserted when Hashknife and Sleepy came in.
A couple of girls were on the small stage-like platform at the end of the room, practising a few dance steps, while with one hand a pallid young man thumped out a melody on the piano.
A bartender humped his white-clad elbows on the bar, while he deeply perused a paper-backed novel. A “swamper” was scrubbing back of the bar. His activities seemed to irritate the bartender, who knew that sooner or later he would have to move and break the thread of his story.
Hashknife and Sleepy walked up to the bar and looked around the place. The bartender sighed, folded over a leaf of his book to mark his place, and came down to them.
“’Smatter over there?” he indicated the street with a jerk of his sleek-combed head.
“Feller got leaded up,” said Hashknife. “Feller named Quinn.”