Part 44 (1/2)

Racey's hands were folded on the horn of his saddle. Thompson's right hand hung at his side. Racey had told the truth when he spoke of Thompson as a good snap shot. He was all of that. And he was fairly quick on the draw as well. It would seem that, taking into consideration the position of Thompson's right hand, that Thompson had a shade the better of it. Racey thought so. But he hoped, nevertheless, by shooting through the bottom of his holster, to plant at least one bullet in Thompson before the latter killed him.

The decision lay with Thompson. Would he elect to fight? Racey could almost see the thoughts at conflict behind Thompson's frontal bone.

Mr. Saltoun, hoping against hope, sat tensely silent. Racey's eyes held Thompson's steadily.

Slowly, inch by inch, Thompson's right hand moved upward--and away from the gun b.u.t.t. He gathered his reins in his left hand and with his. .h.i.therto menacing right he tilted his hat forward and began to scratch the back of his head.

”If you don't mean more'n you say,” offered Thompson, ”you don't mean much.”

”Which is all the way you look at it,” said Racey.

”And a d.a.m.n good way, too,” nipped in Mr. Saltoun, hurriedly, inwardly cursing Racey for not letting well enough alone. ”What was the fight about, Thompson?”

”Cards,” said Thompson, laconically, switching his eyes briefly to Mr.

Saltoun's face.

”And the stranger cold-decked him?” inquired Racey.

”Something like that, but I can't say for sh.o.r.e. I wasn't playing with him. Doc Coffin was, and so was Honey Hoke and Peaches Austin. Peaches said he kind of had an idea the stranger dealt himself a card from the bottom just before old Dale started to crawl his hump. But Peaches ain't sh.o.r.e about it. Seemin'ly old Dale is the only one was sh.o.r.e, and he's dead.”

”And yo're going for the coroner, huh?” asked Racey.

”I said so.”

”But you didn't say if anybody was chasing the stranger now. Are they?”

”Sh.o.r.e,” was the prompt reply. ”They all took out after him--all except McFluke, that is.”

Racey nodded. ”I expect McFluke would want to stay with Dale,” he said, gently, ”just as you'd want to go to Farewell after the coroner.

Yo're sh.o.r.e it is the coroner, Thompson?”

”Say, how many times do you want me to tell you?” demanded the badgered Thompson. ”Of course it's the coroner. In a case like this the coroner's gotta be notified.”

”I expect,” a.s.sented Racey. ”I expect. But if yo're really goin' for the coroner, Thompson, what made you tell us when you first met us you were going for the sheriff?”

”Why,” said Thompson without a quiver, ”I'm a-goin' for him, too. I must 'a' forgot to say so at first.”

”Yeah, I guess you did.” Thus Racey, annoyed that Thompson had contrived to crawl through the fence. He had hoped that Thompson might be tempted to a demonstration, for which potentiality he, Racey, had prepared by removing his right hand from the saddle horn.

”It don't always pay to forget, Thompson,” suggested Mr. Saltoun, coldly.

”It don't,” Thompson a.s.sented readily. ”And I don't--most always.”

”Don't stay here any longer on our account, Thompson,” said Racey.

”You've told us about enough.”

”Try and remember it,” Thompson bade him, and lifted his reins.

”We will, and, on the other hand, don't you forget yore sheriff and yore coroner.”

”I won't,” grinned Thompson and rode past and away.