“I’ll tell him, Hartley. But do yuh really think he was back in this country?”
“I’d know them hoof-marks in hell. And if he was headin’ out of the country, he wouldn’t come back here from Welcome, just to make tracks in the dust.”
“No, that’s a fact. But lemme tell yuh somethin’, Hartley; if you meet Kid Glover, shoot quick. He’s a bad man, and if he knows you own that horse, he’ll kill yuh when yuh meet.”
“Oh, I’m not worryin’ about that, Reimer; but thanks, just the same.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s kinda goin’ back on his own friends,” said Hashknife to himself, as he went back to the office. “Warns me to shoot first, eh?”
Slim wanted to go down across the river and watch the old dugout, but Hashknife had no liking for that tangle of brush at night, so they decided to make it an early morning call instead. Slim had sent out telegrams describing old Rance McCoy, warning the officers of the neighboring counties to be on the lookout for him; but as yet no one had reported seeing him.
It was about midnight that night, and Hashknife and Sleepy were in their room talking over the events of the day. The town was very quiet when they heard a horse running up the street, a splattering of hoof-beats, denoting that the rider had, in the parlance of the range, “spiked his horse’s tail” across the street from them at the Red Arrow Saloon.
Hashknife cautiously blew out the lamp before raising the window and shade. Excited voices showed that something had excited them. He could see a horse and several men in the light from the saloon window. One man ran down the street toward the sheriff’s office, while another headed the opposite way.
“We better go down and listen to this, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. They drew on their boots and headed for the saloon. Slim was just arriving on the scene, pulling on his shirt.