They saddled in silence. Tadd slipped a Winchester into the saddle scabbard and emptied a box of 30–40 shells into his pocket.
“I told Fox I’d meet him at the lone cottonwood to deliver those cattle, Hank,” said Tad with a grimness that gave the statement the tone of a threat. “That’ll be Sunday noon. I reckon you’ll be there. So-long till then.”
“Remember the paper in the safe,” Kipp reminded Hank. “It’ll explain a heap that I reckon yo’re a big enough man tuh understand, Hank.”
Without another word, Tad and Kipp rode away, leaving Hank standing in the gateway, scratching his head in a puzzled manner.
“Hank Basset,” called Ma from the doorway, some time later. “Whatever in the world are yuh standin’ there in the road fer? A person ’ud think you’d jest said good-by to yore last friend, a standin’ around like a hoot owl with yore hat in yore hand, gawkin’.”
“Last friend?” muttered Hank, as he turned to the house. “I don’t know but what she done guessed it right. The hull danged business has got beyond me, dad gum it.”
“If you bin hittin’ that bottle,” warned Ma, her voice firm with determination, “you’ll put in the rest of the week at the blacksmith shop. I’ll have no drunken rowdies set foot over my door sill.”
Ten feet from the cabin, Hank halted. He saw Ma Basset holding the bottle of snake-bite medicine to the light. Memory of Shorty’s healthy-sized drinks came to Hank’s mind.
“A good three inches below my last mark,” he heard his wife mutter. “I suspected as much.”
With a groan, Hank turned and with dragging steps, entered the blacksmith shop.