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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." "You seem to know more about it than I do.
"None of that now," cautioned Racey Dawson, his right hand flashing down and up, as McFluke, finding that escape was out of the question, made a desperate snatch 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.
"You was going with me anyway sort of," Chuck told him. "Yo're the only man round here so far's I can see, and I ain't taking any chances on you, not a chance. Yo're going down the trail a spell with me. Later you can come back. Keep yore hands where they are." Quickly Chuck shoved McFluke to one side, rushed forward, and possessed himself of Racey's gun. "Crawl yore hoss," he commanded.
Until the trail took them down into a draw grown up in spruce Chuck's gun remained very much in evidence. Any unbiased spectator without a knowledge of the facts would have said that he was keeping a close watch on Racey Dawson. Once out of sight of the house of McFluke, Chuck sheathed his sixshooter with a jerk and returned Racey's gun.
"Besides saying the stranger was dealing from the bottom did Dale use any other fighting words?" "He called him a tinhorn," burst simultaneously from the lips of McFluke and Peaches Austin. "Only two this time," said Racey, shooting a swift glance at Jack Harpe and overjoyed to find the latter dividing a glare of disgust between McFluke and Austin. "But you'll have to do better than that." Mr.
"Then what didja let him get away for?" persisted Racey. "Luke Tweezy said he left him here, and he said he'd stay here. That was yore job to see he stayed here." "Who are " began the suspicious McFluke. "Nemmine who I am," rapped out Racey, who believed he had formed a correct estimate of McFluke. "I'm somebody who knows more about this deal than you do, and that's enough for you to know.
"You looked sort of funny when you said it. Well, then, Peaches, we'll go back to our hole yonder. It's reasonable to suppose that fellers hustlin' to dig it and without any too much time wouldn't make it any bigger than they had to. How about it, huh?" "Guess so, maybe." "Aw right, I told you a while ago the hole was too big for McFluke. Why was it made too big for McFluke?" "Damfino."
Yore horse is tied at the corral gate. I roped him on my way in. C'mon! Get up! or will I have to crawl yore hump again?" But McFluke did not get up. Instead he scrabbled sidewise to the wall and shrank against it. His eyes were wide, staring. They were fixed on the doorway behind Mr. Pooley.
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.
When their hands had encircled the glasses 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 sushing cloth stopping abruptly.
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