“About ninety-nine per cent.”
They crossed the river and were almost to town when Slim Caldwell looked sharply at Hashknife.
“You don’t happen to be any relation to a feller named Hartley that was up on the Thunder River range for a while a year or so ago, do yuh?”
“I dunno,” replied Hashknife. “There’s more or less Hartleys scattered over the country.”
“Not this kind of a Hartley.”
“Colored one?” grinned Hashknife.
“Pretty much white, as far as I’ve heard.”
“I guess it wasn’t any of my relatives, sheriff.”
“Prob’ly not. It just struck me kinda queer that there should be two Hartleys runnin’ around with Stevens for a bunkie.”
Hashknife’s face did not change expression, and when the sheriff looked at Sleepy, there was only mild wonder in that worthy’s innocent blue eyes.