Part 46 (1/2)

Racey Dawson, conscious that both Jack Harpe and Luke Tweezy were watching him covertly, rolled a meticulous cigarette. He scratched a match on the chair seat, held it to the end of the cigarette, and stared across the pulsing flame straight into the eyes of the Marysville lawyer. Tweezy's gaze wavered and fell away. Racey inhaled strongly, then got to his feet and lazed across to the bar where Jake Rule, with Kansas Casey at his elbow, was perfunctorily questioning McFluke. The latter's hard, close-coupled blue eyes narrowed at Racey's approach.

Racey, as he draped himself against the bar, was careful to nudge Casey's foot with a surrept.i.tious toe.

”Jake,” said Racey, ”would I be interruptin' the proceedings too much if I made a motion for us to drink all round?”

”Not a-tall,” declared the sheriff, heartily.

Racey turned to McFluke.

When their hands had encircled the gla.s.ses for the third time, Racey, instead of drinking, suddenly looked across the bar at McFluke who was industriously swabbing the bar top.

”Mac,” he said, easily, ”when that stranger ran out the door how many gents fired at him?”

”Punch Thompson,” replied McFluke, the sus.h.i.+ng cloth stopping abruptly. ”You heard him tell the coroner how he fired and missed, didn't you?”

”Oh, I heard, I heard,” Racey answered. ”No harm in asking again, is there? Can't be too sh.o.r.e about these here--killin's, can you? Mac, which door did the stranger run through--the one into the back room or the one leadin' outdoors?”

”Why, the one leadin' outdoors, of course.” McFluke's surprise at the question was evident.

”Jake,” said Racey, ”s'pose now you ask Punch Thompson what the stranger was doing when he cut down on him.”

The sheriff regarded Racey with his keen gray gaze. Then he faced about and singled out Thompson from a conversational group across the room.

”Punch,” he called, and then put Racey's question in his own words.

”What was he doin'?” said Thompson, heedless of McFluke's agonized expression. ”Which he was hoppin' through that window there”--here he indicated the middle one of three in the side of the room--”when I drawed and missed. I only had time for the one shot.”

At this there was a sudden scrabbling behind the bar. It was McFluke trying to retreat through the doorway into the back room, and being prevented from accomplis.h.i.+ng his purpose by Racey Dawson who, at the innkeeper's first panic-stricken movement, had vaulted the bar and grabbed him by the neck.

”None of that now,” cautioned Racey Dawson, his right hand flas.h.i.+ng down and up, as McFluke, finding that escape was out of the question, made a desperate s.n.a.t.c.h at the knife-handle protruding from his bootleg.

The saloon-keeper reacted immediately to the cold menace of the gun-muzzle pressing against the top of his spinal column. He straightened sullenly. Racey, transferring the gun-muzzle to the small of McFluke's back, stooped swiftly, drew out McFluke's knife and tossed it through a window.

”You won't be needing that again,” said Racey Dawson. ”Help yoreself, Kansas.”

Which the deputy promptly proceeded to do by snapping a pair of handcuffs round the thick McFluke wrists.

”Whatell you trying to do?” bawled McFluke in a rage. ”I ain't done nothing! You can't prove I done nothing! You--”

”Shut up!” interrupted Kansas Casey, giving the handcuffs an expert twitch that wrenched a groan out of McFluke. ”Proving anything takes time. We got time. You got time. What more do you want?”

The efficient deputy towed the saloon-keeper round the bar and out into the barroom. He faced him about in front of Jake Rule. The sheriff fixed him with a grim stare.

”What did you try to run for, Mac?” he demanded.

”I had business outdoors,” grumbled McFluke.

”What kind of business?”

”What's that to you? You ain't got no license to grab a-hold of me and stop me from transacting my legitimate business whenever and wherever I feel like it.”