“Aw, come on, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Never seen a bartender or a sheepherder yet that had any sense.”
As they started to cross the street, a rider on a mouse-colored horse passed in front of them, going down toward the sheriff’s office. The man was almost as tall as Hashknife; his features were hidden by the shadow of his low-pulled Stetson.
Bliz Skelton and the sheriff were coming away from the office, and the sheriff hailed this rider, who swung over to the board sidewalk beside them.
“Wears bat-wing chaps, beaded vest and a polky-dot shirt,” observed Hashknife aloud, “rides with his stirrups a notch too short; all of which makes me feel that I know that hombre, Sleepy.”
“Let’s look him over,” suggested Sleepy. “Looks a li’l gaudy to me, but mebbe he’s all right.”
The stranger was talking earnestly to the sheriff, as they walked up, and the conversation seemed to interest Skelton. The stranger turned and looked at Hashknife, but continued to talk.
“I dunno,” said Skelton, shaking his head. “I’m much obliged to you, but I ain’t made up my mind yet jist what ’m goin’ t’ do. ’F I sell out I won’t need no hired help.”
“And if you don’t, you do.”
The sheriff was a trifle ungrammatical, but sincere.
“Yeah,” admitted Skelton.