Then he felt himself jerked back to consciousness, in which he was conscious of a heavy nausea and a throbbing pain in his head. He opened his eyes wearily and looked around. He was lying on the floor of a room, his head and shoulders propped against the wall, and on a box near him was an oil lamp, turned low enough to make the other objects in the room indistinct.
His eyesight gradually cleared, and he saw a man, squatting on his heels a few feet away, looking at him intently. It was Kid Glover. His thin, dark features were sharply etched in the yellow lamplight, and his mop of black hair hung low over his forehead. In his right hand dangled a six-shooter, which Hashknife immediately recognized as his gun.
Hashknife sighed and closed his eyes.
“Don’t play ’possum with me,” growled Glover. “What in hell do you want here, feller?”
It was evident to Hashknife that Glover did not know him; which was fortunate for Hashknife. He opened his eyes and looked at Glover wearily.
“What do I want?” he said slowly. “I just stopped here, thinkin’ I’d get a meal.”
“Yeah?” Glover was not convinced. “Where you from?”
“Milk River, Montana.”
“Yeah. Stranger, eh?”
“What happened to me?” queried Hashknife, feeling of his head and finding a swelling which compared favorably in size with a doorknob.