“Yeah, I suppose,” smiled Hashknife. “How about you?”
“I don’t think fast enough.”
“And I’d probably sit down to think, durin’ a fight.”
“I’ll bet yuh would. If somebody mentioned a mystery, it’s a cinch you’d forget what yuh was doin’, Hashknife.”
“It’s a failin’, I suppose. Ho-o-o-hum! We better hit the hay if we’re startin’ early.”
And Sleepy knew that it was not a job at the roundup that was calling Hashknife. The moment the gambler had mentioned the train robbery Sleepy knew what would happen. He had been Hashknife’s partner long enough to know the inner workings of that long cowboy’s mind, and he knew the mention of that holdup to Hashknife was like a spur to a bronco.
It meant a chance to pit his mind against crime and criminals; not so much because he disliked criminals, but because of the dangerous game.
Hashknife had never studied psychology, nor had he ever tried to analyze crime. Born of poor parents—his father had been an itinerant minister in the Milk River country, in Montana—he had had little schooling. At an early age he had started out to make his own way in the world, working as a cowboy, the only profession he knew.
But he had a receptive mind, and in the years that followed he had picked up a varied education, absorbing the things that are often overlooked by other men, more fortunate in their earlier years; studying human nature, but always analyzing things. He wanted to know the why of everything.
Drifting one day to the ranch, the brand of which gave him his nickname, he met Dave Stevens, another wandering cowboy, who became “Sleepy” because he seemed always wide awake, and these two mounted their horses one day, strapped on their war-bags and bed-rolls, and started out to see the other side of the hill.