“Wasn’t,” Hagen replied. “I come out of there and found the horses.”
“The Ten-Spot is almost straight across the street from the livery-stable,” mused Easton aloud. “I wonder if they—Hagen, is there another livery-stable here?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Soapy’ Evans owns kind of a stable.”
“You want to earn your money, Hagen?”
“Tha’s me.”
“Go up to the livery-stable and find out if them two snake-hunters are there. Don’t let ’em see you; do you understand?”
“Prob’ly git killed, if I don’t,” grunted Hagen. “Where’ll I find you?”
“I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”
It was about two blocks to the stable, and the average was about six saloons to a block. Hagen knew that he had won back the good graces of his employer; so he went in and partook of good cheer. Easton fretted in the dark and waited for a report, while Hagen weaved in and out of the saloons; getting closer to the stable at each entrance and exit, but also getting more cocksure of himself.
The last saloon took away every vestige of cowardice in Blondy Hagen’s make-up. He came out, balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, while he filled his lungs to capacity and then emitted a war-whoop that would have shamed any Indian on earth.