Merrick crossed the street to the Pinnacle hitch-rack and mounted his horse. Ralston went back to the office and got an extra Winchester for Merrick, and they rode away at a swift gallop.
They had barely disappeared when the Heavenly Triplets showed up. They had rolled under the sidewalk near where Joe had shot Kelsey. From the depths of an empty wagon-box farther up the street came Abe Liston, of the 3W3. Slim Coleman, of the Lazy B, sauntered out of the narrow alley between the Pinnacle Saloon and a feed-store.
The Heavenly Triplets were fairly sober now—too sober to think of anything funny to do; so they headed for the Pinnacle Saloon.
“Hey, you snake-hunters!” yelled Slim Coleman. “Didn’t yuh ride away with the posse?”
“We shore did!” replied Lonnie. “Couldn’t find a thing. C’mon and have a drink, you man hunter.”
“Sheriffin’ does make a feller kinda dry,” admitted Slim. “I’ll go yuh once, if I lose all m’hair. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I’ll betcha Ralston is mad enough to gnaw a nail.”
“Well, he can go plumb to the devil, as far as we’re concerned,” declared Nebrasky. “Any old time we go huntin’ criminals, it’ll be when there ain’t nothin’ else to do. Anyway, I don’t look upon the shootin’ of Kelsey as a crime.”
They lined up at the bar and offered to sing a song for the drinks. But the bartender was a bit sceptical about the intrinsic value of anything they might sing.
“It’s all right with me, yuh understand,” explained the bartender. “But when Handsome starts checkin’ up the till at night—you know what I mean.”
“Oh, shore,” nodded Lonnie. “Some folks never appreciate talent. Howja like to have a free song?”