“——!” he snapped. “They didn’t miss us very far that time.”
“Common occurrence?” asked Hashknife.
“Periodical. Last week I was shakin’ some stuff out of a fry-pan outside, and they nailed the ol’ pan, dead-center. Wrenched —— out of m’ wrist, too. Never even saw where the bullet came from. I dunno whether they’re hintin’ fer me to move, or missin’ their target.”
“Got —— good eyes, if they shot at that pot,” grunted Hashknife, “’cause that rifle wasn’t closer than five hundred yards.”
“Cat-eyes,” added Sleepy. “Nobody could see into a house at this time of the day. That hombre wasn’t aimin’ to spill our coffee, y’ betcha.”
“Got a rifle, Skelton?” This from Hashknife.
“Dang right I have.”
He walked over to one of the bunks and threw back the blankets. He ran his hand over them, dug under the straw-tick, and stepped back, looking curiously around.
“What do you know about that?” he grunted. “It ain’t there!”
“Are you sure?” asked Hashknife.