“That may be true, but just the same I don’t know of any good reason why we should go to Red Arrow. It’s only a little range, Hashknife. It won’t be long before the old snow will be cuttin’ across this country, and it’ll shore catch two unworthy punchers with thin seats in their pants, if them two punchers don’t do somethin’. We started out for Arizona, if yuh remember. It’s summer down there, cowboy. I want to read about my snow this winter. And as far as that train robbery is concerned—nobody got hurt.”
Hashknife leaned against a post and rolled a cigarette, a half-smile on his thin lips, as he glanced at the serious face of Sleepy Stevens.
“Sleepy, I’m goin’ to foller you this time. You’ve always trailed my bets, and for once in our lives I’m goin’ to foller you. Head for Arizona, cowboy; and I’ll rub knees with yuh. C’mon.”
“My God!” exclaimed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha you’re sick. Don’tcha feel kinda faint? Any spots in front of yore eyes? Kinda ache all over? No?”
“I feel normal,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yuh shore don’t act it. Huh! Well, mebby I’m dreamin’. After while I’ll wake up and find myself bein’ shot at by somebody you’re trailin’. Let’s go, before yuh suffer a relapse.”
They went down to the livery stable, where an unkempt, sleepy-eyed stable-man met them. He squinted at Hashknife, spat violently, and glanced back along the row of stalls.
“We’re pullin’ out,” said Hashknife. “What’s our bill?”
“Oh, about fo’ bits. Say”—he squinted at Hashknife—“one of you fellers was a-ridin’ a tall, gray bronc, wasn’t yuh?”
“I ride him,” said Hashknife.