Hashknife grinned as he related the conversation between himself and Butch. He gave Slim the hat. They looked it over for identifying marks, but found none. The size was plainly marked on a sticker under the sweat-band.
“I never paid no attention to the size of DuMond’s head,” said Chuck.
“When yore life depends on noticin’ things, yuh get the habit of seein’ ’em,” said Hashknife gravely. “Did any of yuh ever see old Rance McCoy wearin’ a hat as big as this one?”
None of them had.
“It shore ain’t the one he had when he was in jail,” declared Chuck. “That one was an awful old wreck.”
“Did Billy DuMond have any money?” asked Hashknife.
“On forty a month?” grinned Slim.
“Was him and Angel McCoy good friends?”
“Always have been, I reckon.”
Hashknife straightened out the black sombrero. It was not the type of hat an old man would buy. It was one of the size known as “five-gallon,” and of a rather expensive finish.