“Want to give him that letter,” explained Hashknife.
“Oh!” Easton’s grunt seemed to relieve him.
“’F he ain’t around here, mebbe you could take care of it for him, eh?”
“Sheriff’s nervous,” interrupted Sleepy. “’Pears to have a itch on his hip. Likely comes from a callous caused by packin’ such a heavy gun.”
Jake Blue scowled, but said nothing.
“I’ll give him the letter,” nodded Easton, trying to not appear too eager to be of service.
Hashknife’s concealed right hand flipped the letter to the bar in front of Easton and dropped back. Easton picked up the letter and started to put it in his vest-pocket, but Hashknife stopped him.
“Whoa, Blaze!”
Easton stared at him wonderingly, as Hashknife motioned for him to stop.
“Not in a vest-pocket, pardner. Put it in your side pants-pocket, if you don’t mind. That’s the only pocket where a tin-horn gambler don’t pack a derringer.”