Easton scowled and shoved the letter into the designated pocket. He wondered if this tall cowpuncher was a mind reader, and knew that he was going to use the letter as an excuse to get at the two-barreled derringer in his vest-pocket.
“’F you don’t stop hankerin’ t’ scratch—” Sleepy’s voice held a note of menace—“’f you don’t, I’m goin’ to get a piece of sandpaper and give you one good curryin’, Mister Sheriff. Ain’tcha ashamed to scratch thataway in comp’ny?”
“By ——, I’m tired of this!” wailed the exasperated Mr. Blue. “Who’re you, anyway, I’d like to know? What right you got to tell me when I can scratch and when I can’t?”
“I’m just teachin’ you how to act polite, ain’t I?” complained Sleepy. “Gee cripes, you sure do act peevish over learnin’ things. ’F I was you——”
“Don’t tease the li’l gent, Sleepy,” Hashknife said, chuckling. “His chilblains has likely extended up to his hips. You know how cold feet makes you itch.”
Hashknife kept his eyes on Easton, while talking direct to Sleepy, and he saw a flash of relief come over Easton’s face. A man had stepped in behind him, brushing against Hashknife’s right elbow, and Easton’s eyes had followed this man.
The conversation had been even lower than ordinary and had attracted no attention.
It all happened in a few seconds. As the man brushed Hashknife’s arm, Hashknife stepped quickly away from the bar; stepped away just in time to let Hagen, the ex-88 cowboy, crash into Easton.
Hagen had intended to bump Hashknife hard enough to knock him off his balance, but he had not expected Hashknife to move so quickly.