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"Shore they are," chimed in Swing, watching his friend closely so closely that he was able to catch the extremely slight nod of approbation given by Racey. "Thu-there's Tom Loudon an' Tim Pup-pup-page of the Bub-bar S," stuttered Racey, gazing blearily at Luke Tweezy. "Bub-best fuf-friends I ever had, them tut-two fellers. An' Old Man Sus-Saltoun. There's a pup-prince for you.
Tweezy smiled once more and drew forth a long and shiny pocket-book from the inner pocket of his vest. From the pocket-book he extracted a legal-looking document. Which document he handed to Sheriff Rule. "Read her off, Jake," requested Luke Tweezy. The sheriff read aloud the lines of writing.
Luke was chewing a straw. His eyes were half closed, but Racey detected their glitter. Luke Tweezy was not overlooking any bets at that moment. Racey stepped across the doorsill and halted just within the room. The thumb of his left hand was hooked in his belt. His right hand hung at his side. He was ready for action.
McFluke had not been idle at the bar, and the coroner's jury was three parts drunk. The members had not yet agreed on a verdict. But the delay was a mere matter of form. They always liked to stretch the time, and give the territory a good run for her money. Racey Dawson, conscious that both Jack Harpe and Luke Tweezy were watching him covertly, rolled a meticulous cigarette.
"Can I take him now, Judge?" inquired Chuck Morgan, referring to the dead man. "Any time," nodded Dolan. Racey Dawson, whose eyes that day were missing nothing, saw that Jack Harpe was looking steadily at Luke Tweezy. Luke's nod was barely perceptible. "Where were you thinking of taking him, Chuck?" was Tweezy's query. "Moccasin Spring," Chuck replied, laconically.
Can't you find yore way to the hotel in the dark? That crack on the topknot didn't blind you, did it?" "I lost something," explained Luke Tweezy. "When I fell down most all my money slipped out of my pocket." "I'll get you a lantern then," grumbled the proprietor.
So, feeling as he did, Racey stared upon his enemies with a frosty, slit-eyed stare and mentally dared them to come to the scratch. But in moments like these there is always one to say "Let's go," or give its equivalent, a sign. And that one is invariably the leader of one side or the other. Racey Dawson saw Luke Tweezy turn a slow head and look toward Jack Harpe.
You got another guess, Racey, and it's me that will get the most out of that laugh. If it's like I say, even if Lanpher and Tweezy are trying a game you don't get paid a nickel if Jack Harpe and his cattle ain't in on the deal. You done put in the Jack Harpe end of it yoreself. I heard you. So did Tom Loudon, and Swing, too. Jack Harpe. Yeah. He is the tune you was playing alla time.
I'm sorry, but that's the way it stands under the law." It was then that the door-latch clicked and one entered without knocking. It was Luke Tweezy. Beyond the merest flicker of a glance he did not acknowledge the presence of Racey Dawson. He nodded perfunctorily to Dolan. "Mornin', Judge," said he, "are the papers ready for the sheriff yet?" "Not yet, Luke, not yet," Dolan assured, him blandly.
He held out a letter to the Judge. Judge Dolan took the letter and read it carefully. Then he looked across at Luke Tweezy. "This here," said he, tapping the letter with stiffened forefinger, "is a signed letter from Dale to you. It seems to be a reply in the negative to a letter of yores askin' him to sell his ranch." The Judge paused and glanced round the room.
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