hin' hostyle. Let's go right
in. Open the door. G'on, damn yore soul, or I'll blow you apart!"

Rack Slimson opened the door and immediately endeavoured to spring to
one side. But he reckoned not on the strength of Racey Dawson. The
latter swung Rack back into place between himself (Racey Dawson) and
the table at which Doc Coffin and his two friends were sitting.

It was a painfully surprised trio that confronted Racey and his
unwilling barricade. The bartender was likewise surprised. He
immediately fell flat on the floor. Not so the three men at the table.
They sat quite still and stared at the man and the gun behind the body
of their friend Rack Slimson. They said nothing. Perhaps there was
nothing to say.

"I hear you were expectin' me, Doc," drawled Racey, his eyes bright
with cold anger. "Whatsa matter?" he added. "Ain't three of you enough
to take care of any mistakes?"

At which Doc Coffin's right hand flashed downward. Racey drove an
accurate bullet through Doc Coffin's mouth. The bullet ranging upward,
and making its exit through the parietal bone, let in the light on
Doc's hitherto darkened intellect in more ways than one.

Doc Coffin's forefinger, tightening convulsively on the trigger of its
wearer's sixshooter, sent an unaimed shot downward. But previous to
embedding itself in a floor board, the bullet passed through Honey
Hoke's foot. This disturbed Honey's aim to such an extent that instead
of shooting Racey through the head he shot Rack through the hat.

Racey, attending strictly to his knitting, bored Honey Hoke with a
bullet that removed the top of the second knuckle of Honey's right
hand, shaved a piece from the wrist bone, and then proceeded to
thoroughly lacerate most of the muscles of the forearm before finally
lodging in the elbow. Thus was Honey Hoke rendered innocuous for the
time being. He was not a two-handed gunfighter.

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. Racey had no illusions as to Thompson, but he
obviously could not shoot him in the back. He let him go. Watching
from a window he saw Thompson go to the hitching-rail in front of the
saloon, untie his horse, mount, and ride a