Hashknife lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Skelton, who was
moving his lips slowly over the written words. Skelton straightened up
and shook his head.
“I don’t _sabe_ that foreman stuff. Spot Easton never was foreman of
the 88.”
“Has Lonesome Lee been nursin’ a sore arm?” asked Sleepy.
Skelton laughed shortly.
“’F he has, I never knowed it. That letter’s sure got me pawin’ m’
head. I never knowed that Lonesome Lee had a wife or daughter.”
“And,” added Hashknife meaningly, “Spot Easton was kind enough to want
to meet her in Gunsight. He was also doin’ the writin’ for Lonesome,
’cause Lonesome had a sore arm.”
“Whatcha make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.
Hashknife pondered over the manufacture of a cigaret, and read the
letter again before he spoke.
“’Pears to me that the lady done sent her picture, previous. Mebbe
she’s pretty, which would attract Mister Easton. It also appears that
Mister Easton has got old Lonesome Lee where the hair’s short and
tender, and he’s kinda runnin’ Lonesome’s business.
“Accordin’ to signs, Mister Easton has lied to said lady, who thinks
her paw is somebody. Paw ain’t got no nerve left to object, and Mister
Easton has likely told him that he has invited this here daughter to
live at the 88. Paw ain’t got the guts to howl against such things, and
when he finds that the letter is from Boston he’s plumb shaky that it
tells about daughter’s de-parture. Mister Easton naturally is wishful
to know how his invite has worked out; which is the reason he grabbed
at the letter. That’s how she looks to me.”
“’F that’s a fact, I sure as ---- feel sorry fer her,” stated Skelton
sadly.
“Yuh might feel sorry for Lonesome, too,” said Hashknife. “He’s all
shot to pieces with hooch, and he likely knows that she’s comin’ to
find him.”
“Figurin’ she’s goin’ to be happy with him,” added Sleepy mournfully.
“Comin’ to celebrate her eighteenth birthday. ----!”
Hashknife got to his feet and walked over to the open door, where he
leaned against the casing and contemplated deeply. The sun had already
dropped behind the hills, which looked like blue silhouettes, with
silver trimmings. Far away on the skyline drifted a herd of cattle;
their outlines blurred from the back-light of the sunset.
From below the long sheds came a string of cattle, heading for the
water-hole opening on the brushy stream; bawling softly, as they
followed the deeply-worn trail. Magpies chattered sleepily in the
cottonwoods.
“Makes a feller wonder how a man can live in a land like this and hate
anybody,” muttered Hashknife.