“Creased?” queried Sleepy anxiously, as he grasped Lonesome by the legs.
Lonesome ceased kicking, but his flow of profanity was undiminished. Skelton brought the water-bucket and a towel and washed the blood off the old man’s face. The bullet had cut a furrow from just above his right eye to a spot over his ear and, in the passing, it had flicked a notch in the top of the ear. The wound was superficial, but the shock was considerable.
He sat up and looked foolishly around, while Skelton mopped off the gore.
“Wh-what happened?” he croaked.
Hashknife examined the wound and turned quickly to Skelton.
“You patch him up, Bliz,” he said. “He’ll likely have a sore head, but that won’t hurt him. Me and Sleepy are goin’ to Caldwell.”
Hashknife was half-way out of the door at the finish of his statement and heading for the stable. Sleepy gawped for a moment and trotted after him. They saddled swiftly and galloped out to the Caldwell road.
“Whatcha goin’ to Caldwell for?” asked Sleepy, as they hit a level stretch and shook up their mounts.
“They’ll arrest us sure as ——, Hashknife.”
“Thasso?”