“Not unless somebody else starts it.”
Neither of them had ever been at the JML, but they knew it was at the end of the road.
The JML was located on the bank of Lava Creek, near where it emptied into Red Arrow River; a two-story ranch-house, unpainted, one-story bunk-house, a stable bigger than the house, and numerous sheds and corrals. It was rather a picturesque old place, situated on an elevation which gave them a free view of the long sweep of hills to the south. To the east, only a short distance away, was the broken expanse of old lava beds.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode boldly up to the house and dismounted at the rickety front porch. There was no sign of life about the place until they walked around to the rear door, where they found Roper Briggs and “One-Eye” Connell, the JML cook. They were squatting on their heels near the kitchen door, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy, Briggs got quickly to his feet. He knew who Hashknife and Sleepy were, but did not speak until Hashknife smiled and nodded to both of them.
“How do yuh do,” said Briggs drawlingly, and it seemed to Hashknife as though Briggs’s eyes darted toward the open kitchen door.
“Just ridin’ around,” said Hashknife easily. “Where’s Langley?”
“Dunno.”
Briggs turned his head and looked toward the hills. One-Eye continued to glare with his remaining optic, but did not open his mouth. One-Eye was about sixty years of age, his sullen old jaws covered with a growth of gray bristles.
“Ain’t home, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“He ain’t,” said Briggs flatly. “Whatcha want?”