“Yea-a-ah? Who shot this Corby person?”
“That’s a pretty blunt question, cowboy. We better hit the hay and catch up a little sleep.”
“Say!” demanded Sleepy. “Why won’t yuh never let me in on anythin’ yuh know?”
“Dunno anythin’. Do you believe in heredity?”
“I sure do, you descendant of a clam.”
It was after daylight the next morning when they brought in the body of Eddie Corby, but Hashknife was not there. He had ridden away from Red Arrow an hour before daylight, alone, leaving Sleepy to look and listen to everything that happened in town.
Sleepy protested against this, but Hashknife usually had his way in matters of this kind. He rode straight to the Circle Spade, where he found Chuckwalla Ike just starting to cook breakfast. The old man looked Hashknife over quizzically, but invited him to eat with them.
“Ridin’ early, ain’tcha?” he asked.
“It’s nice to ride early,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody liable to bushwhack yuh early in the mornin’.”
“Are you expectin’ to be bushwhacked, Hartley?”