With that he turned on a spurred heel and crossed springily to where his horse stood.

“Aw, the devil!” exclaimed Marie, looking helplessly at Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun.  “And he’ll do it, too.”

Then she “kissed” to her horse and rode into the cottonwood grove for a drink at the spring.

Racey, sticking foot in stirrup, found Molly Dale at his elbow.  She was looking at him the way women do when they either don’t understand or think they understand only too well.

“Who is that woman?” asked Molly Dale.

“Huh?” Thus Racey, stupidly.  He was thinking of his friend lying wounded in Farewell.  “What woman you mean?...  Oh, her, that’s Marie, she’s—­she’s lookout in the Happy Heart.”

“Oh, yes, Marie.  I—­I’ve seen you with her—­one evening when you and she were crossing the street and I drove past.  I—­I, yes, indeed.”

And as she spoke her eyes were very bright, and her figure was stiffer than the proverbial poker.  Which was odd.  And at the tail of her words she gave a stiff nod and hurried into the house.  Which was odder.  The species of nod and the hurry—­both.

But Racey was in no mood to speculate on the idiosyncrasies of woman.  Even the woman.  So he topped his mount and rejoined Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun.  They regarded him silently.

“I guess,” said Racey, whirling an empty tobacco-bag by it’s draw-string, “I’ll borrow some of yore smokin’, Tom.  I’m plumb afoot for tobacco at the present writing.”

Tom Loudon handed over his pouch without a word.  But Mr. Saltoun was fidgety.  Unlike his son-in-law, he felt that he must speak.

“Lookit here, Racey,” he said, hurriedly, “you ain’t going to Farewell alone, are you?”

“Why, no, certainly not,” Racey replied, solemnly.  “I’m going to send word to Yardly for the troops.  Hell’s bells, there’s only four of them, man!”

“Yes, well—­Who’s this?  One of our boys?”

But it was not one of “our” boys.  It was Rack Slimson, the proprietor of the Starlight Saloon.  But he was riding in from the direction of the Bar S.

He rode soberly, as one bound on a journey of length.  Even as Marie had done he glimpsed the three men and turned his horse toward them.  Ten feet from the flank of Racey Dawson’s mount he pulled in and nodded.  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.  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.