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Racey, seething with rage, could only sit and hug his knees while Swing went up on the porch and was introduced to the two girls. It was some balm to his tortured soul to see how ill Luke Tweezy took Swing's advent. Did Luke really like Molly Dale? The old goat! Why, the man was old enough to be her father. And did she like him? Lordy man alive, how could she? But Luke Tweezy had money.
When he saw that Racey, after allowing Cuter to drink nearly all he wanted, rode on across the creek and up the farther bank, Swing's brow became corrugated with a puzzled frown. "He means business," muttered Swing. "I ain't seen that look on his face for some time. I wonder what did happen this morning."
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."
Without waiting for Swing's possible comment Racey turned his back on his friend and walked unhurriedly to his horse Cuter. Swing slouched sidewise in the saddle and watched him go. He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled luxuriously. And all without removing his gaze from Racey's back. He watched while Racey flung the reins crosswise over Cuter's neck, mounted, and rode down into the creek.
But I ain't none shore he does. Looks like it was a even break to me the word of you and Luke against his and Swing's. And what's fairer than that I'd like to know?" "Alicran!" squalled Lanpher. "I'm telling you to " "Yo're all worked up, that's whatsa matter," Alicran assured him. "You don't mean more'n half you say.
"That's right," Racey assented, smoothly, suddenly mindful both of a peculiar gleam in Bill Lainey's eye and a chance sentence uttered by the hasher in his hearing at breakfast. "That's right. It was Swing Tunstall what made so free and outrageous with Rack Slimson. You go and crawl Swing's hump, Bill. Lord knows he needs it. He's been getting awful brash and uppity lately. No living with him.
Honest, I'll bet it'll cost me fifteen dollars and a half to replace 'em, what with the scandalous prices we got now." "And I hope that'll make you a better boy, Swing," said Racey, observing with relish the transfer of real money from Swing's hand to the landlord's palm.
The door had been ajar. Why? There was no closet, and from where he stood he could see under both cots. No one lay concealed in the room. The bedclothes on Swing's cot had not been touched. At least they were in precisely the position in which they had been landed when thrown back by Swing's careless hand. Racey did not believe that his own had been touched, either.
"He's gone," he said. Racey Dawson, sitting crosslegged on his cot and plying his needle in most workmanlike fashion, grinned comfortably at the two officers. Lord, how glad he was he had found that knife! If he hadn't "Sidown, gents," invited Racey. "There's two chairs, or you can have Swing's cot if you like." Jake Rule shook his head. "We don't wanna sit down, Racey," he said.
"Correct," said Bill Lainey, stuffing the money into a wide trousers pocket. "'Bliged to you, Swing. I wish all the gents paid up as prompt as you do." "Oh, you needn't be surprised," chipped in the ready Racey. "Swing's a fair-minded boy. He'll do what's right every time, once you show him where he's wrong. Yeah. Say, Bill, has Nebraska Jones many friends in this town?"
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