He stumbled off the sidewalk, gripped his six-shooter tightly, took his bearings from the lantern over the doorway of the stable and set sail.
He stumbled up the plank drive-way and into the dim light of the stable, telling himself hoarsely how very great he was and how Spot Easton depended upon him for everything. As he halted to inhale enough breath for another declaration, a rope seemed to descend from nowhere, tightened around his arms and body, and something threw him upside down with a great crash.
Strong hands picked him up and carried him away, and a moment later he felt himself hurled into space. He landed on something fairly soft, while above him came the crash of a closing door and the rasp of a padlock-hasp.
Hagen staggered to his feet and his head came in violent contact with the roof, and he sat down again. After much painful effort he secured a match and inspected his position. He peered all around, felt of his empty holster, and cursed wickedly when the match burnt his finger.
“I’m in the oat-bin,” he told himself, “an’ I ain’t got no gun. Tha’s pe-culiar, but ’s a fac’.”
And Blondy Hagen settled down in the oats and went to sleep, while Spot Easton cursed savagely and wondered if Hagen had run foul of those two unmentionable cowboys.
He had told Jane Lee that he was going to the livery-stable to get the horse and buggy. Peeking into the restaurant window he saw that she was nervously waiting his return. He prided himself on the fact that he had made an impression on her already and he knew that—well, he owned Lonesome Lee, and the girl did not know any one in Lodge-Pole county.
Hagen had had time to make several trips to the stable by this time. Easton began to worry. Finally he decided to take a chance. He hurried back into the restaurant.
“Just run into a feller who talked business, and it delayed me,” he explained. “I reckon you might as well come along with me as to stay here.”