“Who else?”
“Well, that’s the way I look at it.”
“What does Angel think about it, Jim?”
“He don’t say much. Well, we’ve got to be driftin’, and it’s a long ways home when you’re tired. So-long, gents.”
After Langley left the office, Hashknife wrote out a telegram, which he folded up and handed to Chuck Ring.
“Take that to the depot before yuh eat, Chuck. It’s dark enough now, Slim. Saddle yore horse and meet us at the livery stable.”
Slim hadn’t the slightest idea where they were going, but he was willing to follow anybody who might help him make good on the job. Ten minutes later they met on the side street, and Hashknife led the way toward the Half-Box R. It was very dark, with no hint of a moon.
“That’s our salvation,” said Hashknife. “If it was moonlight, I’d never ride this road tonight. Travel fast and keep still. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later on—if we’re able.”
It seemed a long way to the Half-Box R, riding blindly along the old dirt road, trusting to their mounts to keep the road. In single file they thundered across the bridge where Billy DuMond had lost his life, and the rather frail structure trembled under the thudding hoofs.
About a quarter of a mile from the ranch, as near as Hashknife could judge, they slowed to a walk.