“You did!” gasped Skelton. “Spot Easton? Well——”
Skelton scratched his head and squinted at Hashknife’s serious face.
“Well, I—I reckon yo’re a top-hand, Hartley. Come out to the ranch any ol’ time you git ready. Whoo-ee!”
The old man slapped his hat back on his head and bow-legged his way back to the sheriff’s office.
Hashknife took the letter from his pocket and looked at it.
“She sure belongs to Lonesome Lee, Sleepy. The epitaph proclaims it to be for James B. Lee, Caldwell, Montana, and the little doohicky in a circle says that she was sent from Boston.”
“Now, whatcha reckon Mister Easton wanted this here letter for, Sleepy?”
“Don’t glare at me!” complained Sleepy. “You act like it was my letter. How’d I know what Easton wants?”
“Where did the old man go?” asked Hashknife, paying no heed to Sleepy’s question.
“There you go ag’in! Think I’m a fortune-teller? You saw him the last time I did.”