“Three men?” queried Blue quickly.
“T-h-r-e-e,” spelled Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy’s done hired out to him.”
The sheriff spat explosively and looked at Skelton.
“Zasso, Skelton?”
“Well, yuh—uh—might say it was,” faltered Skelton.
“I’m goin’ to be the foreman,” stated Hashknife, “and if you got any top-hands, you might send ’em to me, sheriff.”
“——!”
Mr. Hagen spoke very peevishly, turned his horse and rode back to the War-Bonnet hitch-rack. There he dismounted, kicked his horse in the belly, and went into the saloon.
“There ain’t no question but what he’s a top-hand,” agreed Hashknife. “All top-hands kick their broncs in the belly thataway. Kinda makes the bronc respect you.”
“Where’s the Swede?” asked Sleepy.