CHAPTER XXII: SOMETHING WRONGSunday was not a busy day in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy were at the livery stable, taking care of their own horses, while the stable-keeper was looking after the rest of the stock. As he led a pair of horses past the stall where Hashknife kept his gray he said to Hashknife:
“I think you lost yore pocket-book last night. I picked one up near yore stall this mornin’. It’s back there on the grain box.”
“All right,” grunted Hashknife, wondering what the man meant. Hashknife never carried a pocket-book in his life.
He hung up his currycomb and walked back to the grain-box, where he found a leather billfold. Inside it were twenty dollars in currency, some personal cards of people he did not know—mostly San Francisco people—and two tickets from Lobo Wells to
