“I heard that mentioned tonight, High Pockets. Christmas! Heat and dust.
Yuh know, I’d like to spend a Christmas in the snow agin, Hashknife. It
ain’t Christmas down here, except on the calendar. We had real
Christmases in Idaho.”

“We had ’em in Montana, too,” said Hashknife. “My old man, bein’ a range
preacher, was strong for things like that. I ’member the church trees
decorated with popcorn in strings, popcorn balls, and little, red sacks
of mosquito-nettin’, full of hard candy, with a tired-lookin’ orange in
the bottom. They’d read telegrams from Santa Claus, showin’ that he was
comin’–and then he’d come, all in a bear-skin coat, sleigh-bells,
whiskers–”

“Bringin’ a pair of skates for little Hashknife,” suggested Sleepy.

“They called me Henry,” smiled Hashknife, “but I never got any skates. A
range preacher didn’t make money enough–and we had a whopper of a
family. We was poor folks, Sleepy.”

“Poor folks in Tomahawk Flats, too, they say. Be a bad Christmas down
there–and we’re goin’ down to try and buy ’em out as cheap as
possible.”

Hashknife nodded slowly. “That’s life, Sleepy.”

“It’s a tough life for busted folks. Yuh know,” Sleepy began rolling a
cigarette, “I’ll bet yuh a dollar agin a doughnut that we don’t buy any
spreads.”

“Anythin’ to base that bet on?”

“Bob Marsh. Listen, tall-feller; Bob Marsh used that as an excuse, or my
original name ain’t Stevens. He wanted us to come here and let Nature
take her course. Yuh can’t fool me, feller; I’m wise to Bob Marsh. No, I
don’t say that Bob’s crooked, but he’s allus been a connivin’ critter.”

“He told the idea as straight as a string, Sleepy.”

“And here we are,” added Sleepy. “We get off the train–and what
happens? A man is blasted down with a load of buckshot, that’s what
happened. He poked cows for one of them poverty-stricken outfits at
Tomahawk Flats.”

Hashknife grinned. “A coincidence, Sleepy. Prob’ly a grudge between two
men–nothin’ to do with us.”

“No? Nothin’ t’ do with us, sez he. Huh! And yore long nose has been
wigglin’ and sniffin’, like the nose of a bloodhound, ever since that
poor devil done a hooligan off the end of that caboose. Nothin’ to do
with us, eh? Let’s go to bed, before yuh get me all riled up.”

Hashknife laughed. It was like Sleepy to complain of things that might
happen. They had been together a long time, these two drifting cowboys,
always trying to find out what was going on over the next hill, only
working long enough to suffice for their few wants, and then going on,
always looking, helping some under-dog, asking nothing for themselves.

* * * * *

Hashknife, with his ability to solve range mysteries, could have sold
his services to the law, and made money. But neither law nor money meant
anything to them. They had seen the law miscarry too often. They loved
justice–which is not necessarily law. At rare times they worked for the
Cattlemen’s Association, asking only that they be given a free hand and
not be hampered by rules. But neither of them enjoyed nor appreciated
the work. Bob Marsh would have almost given his right hand to have them
work for his organization. In fact, he used every sort of ruse to get
them on certain jobs, knowing that Hashknife, confronted by a problem,
would never give up, until it was solved. That was why Sleepy mistrusted
Bob Marsh’s casual suggestion that they make some money for themselves
by asking prices on some cattle ranches.

They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating
breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy
Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were
the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present
when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and
sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they
already knew about the shooting.

Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife
mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with
his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour
disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the
sheriff remarked:

“You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from
the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow
morning–that bein’ today.”

“The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what
else we said?”

“No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?”

“I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important
as what he told yuh.”

The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the
sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like
that require study.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff.

“Nothin’, Nick.”

“Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore
interestin’.”

“We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know
things.”

“Yuh mean–findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy.

“Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.”

“Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never
knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up
with Sam Hack–he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’
with–I dunno.”

They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to
Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find
out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at
the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street
and into the stable: