“Sleepy, you ought to have been an undertaker,” said Hashknife. “Death sure does have a attraction for you, cowboy. To me this looks like a land of milk and honey.”
“Milk and honey, like ——! More like strong liquor and hornets.”
Hashknife laughed. He and Sleepy argued continually, swore affectionately at each other and shared the blanket of a cowboy’s joys and woes.
“Look at the doughnut,” grinned Hashknife. “Consider the rim of brown dough instead of lookin’ through the hole all the time. Nothin’ ever looks right to you, Sleepy.”
“I said ‘strong liquor’,” declared Sleepy, leaning forward in his saddle, “and here comes the proof.”
A horse and rider had topped a rise just beyond them, and there was no doubt but what the rider was sitting drunkenly in his saddle. The horse was going slowly, and in anything but a straight line, as if trying to balance its rider.
“Drunker ’n seven hundred dollars,” declared Sleepy. “Ho-old fast!” he grunted, as the rider almost toppled from the saddle.
The horse stopped as they rode up, standing at right angles to the road, snuffing at the dust. The rider swayed sidewise and Hashknife grabbed him by the arm.
“Drunk ——!” snorted Hashknife. “This man’s been shot!”
“My Gawd, yes!” gasped Sleepy, dismounting and going around to the other side.