“Well, I reckon the only way to find him is to look for him. Come on.”
They went up the sidewalk, past the Hole-in-the-Wall feed-corral, and almost bumped into Lonesome Lee, who was coming out from the narrow alley between the feed-corral and general store. The old man’s cheeks were streaked with tears and dust, and he was half-sobbing—drunkenly. He gawped at Hashknife and Sleepy and tried to avoid them, but Hashknife took him by the arm and drew him back.
“What’s the matter with you?” growled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt you, old-timer. Here’s your letter.”
Lonesome Lee stared at the letter, but made no effort to take it. In fact he seemed afraid of it.
“You ain’t scared of Spot Easton, are you?” asked Sleepy.
Lonesome did not say, but his actions spoke volumes.
“Has that tin-horn got you buffaloed, old-timer? Snap yourself together! You’ve blotted up so much hooch that your nerves are dancin’, but you’re a —— good man yet.” Hashknife’s voice was encouraging.
“Th-think so?”
Lonesome wiped his lips with shaking fingers and moved his feet uncertainly.
“Better read the letter,” urged Sleepy. “It might be good news; you never can tell.”