“Cost about forty dollars,” said Hashknife. “I had one almost like it a few years ago. Wore it on Sunday. The jigger who owned this hat was kind of a dude.”
“Which shore lets out Rance McCoy and Billy DuMond,” laughed Slim. “I know DuMond wouldn’t spend a month’s salary for a hat. The question is—will we gain anythin’ by waitin’ for Chuckwalla to make a move?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly, still eyeing the hat.
“I don’t think so, Slim. There’s more behind this than we think. It’s commencin’ to brew a little. Crooks always make mistakes. And every time they try to rectify one, they make another. Don’t believe what yuh see, because it might be made to look thataway.”
Slim squinted closely at Hashknife, as though trying to read behind those level gray eyes.
“Hartley, have yuh struck a trail?” he asked.
“The makin’ of one, Slim. The blazes ain’t so danged plain yet—but they’re blazes, just the same. Let’s go back to town and get a rig to haul DuMond in with. We’ll let Chuckwalla do as he pleases today. If he had old Rance hid out in the brush, he wouldn’t visit him in the daylight.”
“That’s right. We ain’t got much sense.”
“Not too much, Slim.”