“Well, he ought to recognize DuMond’s hat, hadn’t he?”
“Sure.”
“Well, what’s so funny about it?”
“Nothin’ much, except that DuMond’s head is not less than a seven and three-eighths, and this black hat is a six and seven-eighths.”
“Yuh mean it ain’t DuMond’s hat?”
“Not unless that bullet swelled his head a lot.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exploded Chuck admiringly. “Slim was tellin’ me you was smart. Who’d ever think of comparin’ that hat with DuMond’s head? I’ll betcha Butch Reimer thinks it’s DuMond’s hat. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Anyway, he got kinda sentimental over it,” grinned Hashknife. “Whereabouts is that dugout yuh mentioned?”
“Oh, that’s north of us now. I thought we better find Slim first and tell him about DuMond.”
“I guess so. Is that dead horse much out of our way?”