Hashknife got to his feet and walked over to the open door, where he leaned against the casing and contemplated deeply. The sun had already dropped behind the hills, which looked like blue silhouettes, with silver trimmings. Far away on the skyline drifted a herd of cattle; their outlines blurred from the back-light of the sunset.
From below the long sheds came a string of cattle, heading for the water-hole opening on the brushy stream; bawling softly, as they followed the deeply-worn trail. Magpies chattered sleepily in the cottonwoods.
“Makes a feller wonder how a man can live in a land like this and hate anybody,” muttered Hashknife.
He turned to come back to the table, when—
Ping-g-g—Whop!
Skelton fell backward out of his chair, clawing at the coffee, which sprayed all over him. Sleepy threw himself sidewise out of line with the door, and from somewhere came the thin, whip-like report of a high-powered rifle.
Hashknife kicked the door shut and gawped at Skelton, who got to his feet, shook the coffee out of his eyes, and picked up the coffee-pot—or what remained of it.
The soft-nose bullet had hit it near the bottom and there was nothing much left to identify it as a coffee-pot, except the color and odor. Even the ceiling was dotted with coffee-grounds.
“Anybody hurt?” asked Hashknife.
Skelton gazed ruefully at the remains of the pot, and dug inside his collar after more grounds.