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Updated: June 29, 2025
"And after you'd just happened to remember this something, I s'pose you just happened to ask where I was and they told you Moccasin Spring. Is that the how of it?" "Yo're a good guesser," replied Rack Slimson with sarcasm. "Sometimes I do make a centre shot," Racey admitted, modestly. It was then that Marie, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, rode forth from the cottonwood grove.
He had no cause to feel affection for either man. But there was the "something else" besides the spite in those eyes. That was what interested Racey. "You come here special to tell me this?" said Racey, staring. "Not me," denied Rack Slimson. "I was just passing by, and I thought I'd let you know." "Just bein' neighbourly, huh?" "I dunno as I'd go so far as to say that."
"The ignorance of some people," said Racey, recalling sundry occasions when other folk had oddly failed to grasp his meaning. They rode onward silently. When they reached the southern slope of Indian Ridge, Racey headed to the east. A spirit of unease lit heavily upon the sagging shoulders of Rack Slimson. "You ain't goin' straight for Farewell," he remarked at a venture. "I ain't no."
"I thought you was." "I am but not straight." "Huh?" Rack Slimson wrinkled his forehead at this. "We're goin' in town from the side," explained Racey Dawson. This, too, was a puzzler. "Why?" queried Rack Slimson. "So's nobody will know we're coming till we're there." The smile with which Racey garnished his answer was chilling to the soul of Mr. Slimson. "But I don't see " "You wouldn't.
Yo're a-going with me while I'm hunting for Coffin and Honey Hoke and Punch-the-breeze Thompson and Peaches Austin. Those four will likely be together, see, and I wanna use you for a breastwork sort of." "A breastwork!" cried the now thoroughly upset Mr. Slimson. "A breastwork!" "Shore a breastwork.
"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 glassware. "Ow-wow!" It was a hearty, full-lunged howl that Rack Slimson uttered as he bounded erect and clutched at his trousers.
Rack Slimson, my most payin' customer, hadda sleep on the dinin' room table all night because you druv him out of his room." "Bill, that was a joke," Racey intoned, solemnly. "I didn't like the way the feller snored. Likewise he had too much to say. So naturally I had to make him take it on the run. What else could I do? I ask you, what else could I do?"
There was spite spite and something else in the gaze he fixed on Racey Dawson. "Yore friend's hurt," said he. "Got in a fight." "Hurt bad?" asked Racey. "Not too bad. I've seen worse." "Where's he hurt?" Rack Slimson merely corroborated what Marie had said. So far he seemed to be telling the truth. And it was natural that there should be spite in his eyes.
"Don't you believe him, Bill," cut in Swing, fearful that Racey would get credit for an effort at humour where, in his own estimation, none was due. "Racey hasn't got the guts to pick a fuss with a pack rat. It was me that chased Rack Slimson downstairs."
Give him hell, Bill." "I don't wanna give nobody hell. Live at peace is my motto. All I wanna know is who's gonna settle for six cups, eleven sassers, ten plates, and a middle-size pitcher Rack Slimson busted when he rolled off the table with 'em durin' the night.
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