“Leave that to the gun-men,” Hashknife had said. “We’re not gun-men.”
Which was something that many men would take great pains to disprove, along the back-trail of Hashknife and Sleepy.
And right now, while he ate heavily of the HJ food, Sleepy Stevens knew he was being dragged into the whirlpool of the Tumbling River range. He could tell by the twitch of Hashknife’s nose, by the calculating squint of his gray eyes; and if that was not enough—Hashknife was cutting a biscuit with a knife and fork.
“Five thousand is a lot of money for the HJ to lose,” agreed Honey. “Take that along with the seven thousand owin’ to the Pinnacle City bank and it jist about nails the HJ hide to the floor and leaves it there to starve.”
“Was Jim Wheeler a sickly man?” asked Hashknife.
“Sickly? Not a bit; he was built like a bull.”
“Drink much?”
“Hardly ever took a drink.”
“Ride a bad horse?”
“Been ridin’ the same one three years, and it never made a bobble. Jim’s broncscratchin’ days was over, Hartley.”