“Kinda early, ain’t you?”
“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife, “it is early. Can I talk to you?”
“If you don’t mind strainin’ your voice through the door.”
“I don’t mind,” Hashknife laughed softly. “But this has got to be confidential, Mrs. Snow. It’s about a girl.”
“Thasso?” Mrs. Snow’s voice was a trifle sarcastic. “I ain’t in the habit of bein’ woke up at four o’clock to pass out advice to the love-lorn, Mr. Hartley.”
“Listen, ma’am,” begged Hashknife. “This ain’t nothin’ matrimonial—honest to gosh. You know Spot Easton?”
“By sight and smell,” she replied. Spot Easton’s perfumery was not at all popular with the range folk.
“He lied to a girl,” stated Hashknife softly. “I done stole the girl from him, and I’ve gotta have somebody to take care of her for a while.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” demanded Mrs. Snow, opening the door about four inches. “Where is she? Tell me about her.”
Hashknife swiftly recounted what he knew about the girl, and about the situation at the 88 ranch.