Hashknife sat down on the end of this sidewalk, bracing his shoulders against the corner of the building, and rolled a smoke. The sheriff was at his office, talking with the depot agent, who was writing a telegram to send to the railroad company at Ransome.
Ben Collins’ and Abe Liston’s horses were at the Pinnacle hitch-rack; so Hashknife surmised that they were retailing the story in the saloon. Two youngsters came from the rear of the building, barefooted, overalls-clad. One of them had a ball made of rags sewed through with heavy thread; rather a lop-sided affair, but a ball, for all that.
Hashknife smiled at them and they grinned back at him.
“Throw me a catch,” he said, holding out his hands.
The boy with the ball flipped it toward Hashknife, but his aim was faulty and the ball struck the ground several feet in front of Hashknife. It failed to bounce, but rolled heavily under the sidewalk.
“Bum throwin’!” shrilled the other youngster.
Hashknife laughed and dropped to his knees, crawling beneath the sidewalk trying to reach the ball.
“Lemme help yuh, mister,” said the boy who owned the ball.
“I can get it,” said Hashknife.
He picked it up and handed it absently back to the boy. In the accumulated litter of old playing cards, miscellaneous pieces of paper and the general débris, his eyes caught sight of a certain piece of paper.