They waited, barring the trail.  Punch-the-breeze Thompson did not attempt to ride around them.  He pulled up and nodded easily to the two men.

“They’s been a fraycas down at McFluke’s,” Thompson said.

“Fraycas?” Racey cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah—­old Dale and a stranger.”

Racey nodded.  He knew with a great certainty what was coming next.  “Anybody hurt?” he asked.

“Old Dale.”

“Bad?”

“Killed.”

Racey nodded again.  “Even break?”

“We don’t think so,” Thompson stated, frankly.

“Who’s we?” queried Racey.

“Oh, Austin, Honey Hoke, Doc Coffin, McFluke, Jack Harpe, Lanpher, and Luke Tweezy.  We all just didn’t like the way the stranger went at it, so I’m going to Farewell after the sheriff.”

“Yo’re holdin’ the stranger then, I take it?” put in Mr. Saltoun.

“Well, no, not exactly,” replied Thompson.  “He got away, that stranger did.”

“And didn’t none of you make any try at stopping him a-tall?” demanded Racey.

“Plenty,” Thompson replied with a stony face.  “I took a shot at him myself just as he was hopping through the window.  I missed.”

“Yet they say yo’re a good snap shot, Thompson,” threw in Racey.

“I am—­most usual,” admitted Thompson.  “But this time my hand must ‘a’ shook or something.”

“Yep,” concurred Racey, “I shore guess it must ‘a’ shook or—­something.”

Thompson faced Racey. “‘Or something,’” he repeated, hardily.  “Meaning?”

“What I said,” replied Racey, calmly.  “I never mean more’n I say—­ever.”

Thompson continued to regard Racey fixedly.  Mr. Saltoun was glad that he himself was two yards to the right, and he would not have objected to double the distance.

Racey’s hands were folded on the horn of his saddle.  Thompson’s right hand hung at his side.  Racey had told the truth when he spoke of Thompson as a good snap shot.  He was all of that.  And he was fairly quick on the draw as well.  It would seem that, taking into consideration the position of Thompson’s right hand, that Thompson had a shade the better of it.  Racey thought so.  But he hoped, nevertheless, by shooting through the bottom of his holster, to plant at least one bullet in Thompson before the latter killed him.

The decision lay with Thompson.  Would he elect to fight?  Racey could almost see the thoughts at conflict behind Thompson’s frontal bone.  Mr. Saltoun, hoping against hope, sat tensely silent.  Racey’s eyes held Thompson’s steadily.

Slowly, inch by inch, Thompson’s right hand moved upward—­and away from the gun butt.  He gathered his reins in his left hand and with his hitherto menacing right he tilted his hat forward and began to scratch the back of his head.

“If you don’t mean more’n you say,” offered Thompson, “you don’t mean much.”

“Which is all the way you look at it,” said Racey.