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"What does Peaches Austin work at?" he pursued, thinking that it might be well to learn what he could of the enemy's habits. "He deals another game in the Happy Heart." "'The hand is quicker than the eye," he quoted, cynically, recalling what the stranger had said to Punch-the-breeze Thompson. "Oh, Peaches is slick enough," said she, comprehending instantly. "But Nebraska is slicker.
"Looks like Punch-the-breeze Thompson," said Mr. Saltoun. "It is Thompson," confirmed Racey. "Didn't it strike you he sort of hesitated a li'l bit when he first seen us like a man would whose breakfast didn't rest easy on his stomach, as you might say." Mr. Saltoun nodded. "He did sway back on them lines at the top."
"Go ahead, Racey," said Judge Dolan. Racey, still holding his sixshooter, leaned hipshot against the doorjamb. "It was this way," he began, and told what had transpired that day in the hotel corral when he had been bandaging his horse's leg and had overheard the conversation between Lanpher and Jack Harpe and later, Punch-the-breeze Thompson.
Swing said Honey grabbed his wrist, but Peaches Austin and Punch-the-breeze Thompson was on the other side in the way so none of the boys seen what happened to Swing exactly till after it had." "Austin, Thompson, Hoke, and Coffin," said Racey. "What began the fuss?" "Doc Coffin upset a glass of whiskey over Swing's arm, and then cussed him for getting his arm in the way."
Then they's Punch-the-Breeze Thompson, Honey Hoke, and Peaches Austin. They's a few more, but they ain't the kind to take the lead in anything. They always follow. But Coffin, Thompson, Hoke, and Austin are the gents to keep yore eye peeled for. I ain't talking about 'em, y' understand. I ain't got a word to say against 'em, not a word.
"Didja know he was a friend of Nebraska's?" he asked, watching her face keenly. She shook her head. "Nebraska knows a lot of folks," she said, indifferently. "He knows Punch-the-breeze Thompson, too." "Likely he would, knowing Nebraska. He belongs to Nebraska's bunch." "What does Nebraska do for a living?" "Everybody and anything. Mostly he deals a game in the Starlight."
Dale wrinkled his forehead. "Besides me? Lessee now. They were Doc Coffin, Nebraska Jones, Honey Hoke, and Punch-the-breeze Thompson." "Nobody else?" "Aw, Galloway and Norton and that bunch," Mr. Dale said, shamefacedly. Racey nodded his head slowly. A crooked wheel. Of course it was crooked. Why not?
He held Rack Slimson by the belt and pushed him toward the door giving into the front room. This door was shut. They paused behind it. "He oughta be along pretty soon," complained a fretful voice that Racey recognized as belonging to Honey Hoke. "We don't mind waiting," chimed in Punch-the-breeze Thompson. "It's the best thing we do." This was big Doc Coffin speaking.
"Rack will find him all right," said Punch-the-breeze Thompson. "He might be suspicious of Rack, alla same," Honey Hoke wavered on. "Not the way Rack will tell him. Didn't we fix it up just what Rack was to say and all before he went? Shore we did. He won't make no mistake, Rack won't. You'll see." "And anyway," broke in Doc Coffin, "they's four of us to take care of any mistakes."
As yet Punch-the-breeze Thompson had remained strictly neutral. His hands were on the table top, and had been from the beginning. "It's yore move, Thompson," Racey said with significance. "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.
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