Part 60 (1/2)

”Then I'll be goin',” said Thompson, calmly. ”See you later--maybe.”

So saying he rose to his feet, turned his back on Racey, and walked out of the place. Racey had no illusions as to Thompson, but he obviously could not shoot him in the back. He let him go. Watching from a window he saw Thompson go to the hitching-rail in front of the saloon, untie his horse, mount, and ride away northward.

And the blacksmith shop in front of which Peaches Austin was supposed to be on guard lay at the south end of the street. Where, then, was Thompson going?

”Where's he goin'?” he demanded of the now wriggling Rack Slimson.

”Huh? Who? Punch? I dunno.”

”Where's Jack Harpe?”

”I dunno.”

”Yo're a liar. Where is he?”

”I dunno! I dunno! I tell you! Yo're gug-gug-chokin' me!”

”Yo're lying again. If I was choking you you couldn't talk. Yo're talkin', ain't you? Where's Jack Harpe?”

”I dud-dud-dunno,” insisted Rack Slimson, his teeth chattering as Racey shook him.

”Is he in town?”

”I dud-dunno.”

”Is Thompson going after him, do you think?”

”I dud-dunny-dunno!”

”I guess maybe you don't, after all,” Racey said, disgustedly, flinging the unfortunate saloon-keeper from him with such force that the fellow skittered quite across the floor and sat down in the washpan into which the bartender was accustomed to throw the broken gla.s.sware.

”Ow-wow!” It was a hearty, full-lunged howl that Rack Slimson uttered as he bounded erect and clutched at his trousers.

Racey's eyes brightened at the sight. ”Y' oughta known better than to sit down in all that gla.s.s. I could 'a' told you you'd get p.r.i.c.kles in you. Why don't you stand still and let yore barkeep pick 'em out for you? You can get at most of the big pieces with yore fingers,” he added to the bartender, who was gingerly emerging on all fours round the end of the bar. ”And the little ones you can dig out with a sharp knife. Yep, Rack, old-timer, I'll bet you won't carry any more messages on horseback for a while.”

There was a sudden cras.h.i.+ng thud at the back of the room. Honey Hoke had fallen out of his chair. Now he lay on the floor, his legs drawn up and the back of his frowsy head resting against a rung of the chair in which still sat the dead body of Doc Coffin.

Racey went to Honey and spread him out in a more comfortable position.

Calloway and Judge Dolan entered the saloon together.

”We thought we heard shootin'--” began Galloway, staring in astonishment at the grotesque posture Rack Slimson had a.s.sumed the better to endure the ministrations of the bartender.

”We heard shootin', all right,” said Judge Dolan, his glance sweeping past Slimson and the bartender to the rear of the room.

”What's happened, Racey?” queried Dolan, striding forward. ”Both of 'em cashed?”

Racey shook his head. ”Doc Coffin pa.s.sed out,” said he in a hard, dry voice. ”But Honey Hoke's heart is beatin' regular enough. Guess he's only fainted from loss of blood.”

The Judge nodded. ”They do that sometimes.” Here he looked at Doc Coffin's body lying humped over the table, an arm hanging free, the head resting on the table-top.