“S’pose he goes round the ridge,” offered the doubter, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head.

“He won’t,” declared the confident Doc.  “He’ll come boiling right in like he owned the place.  Don’t you lose no sleep over that.”

“Maybe Rack couldn’t find him,” pursued Honey Hoke, and an answering quiver ran through the frame of Rack Slimson.

“Rack will find him all right,” said Punch-the-breeze Thompson.

“He might be suspicious of Rack, alla same,” Honey Hoke wavered on.

“Not the way Rack will tell him.  Didn’t we fix it up just what Rack was to say and all before he went?  Shore we did.  He won’t make no mistake, Rack won’t.  You’ll see.”

“And anyway,” broke in Doc Coffin, “they’s four of us to take care of any mistakes.”

At which the three laughed loudly.

“I hope,” Racey whispered in Rack’s rather grimy left ear, “I hope you heard all those fellers said.  Proves I was right, don’t it?  Nemmine nodding yore head more’n once.  Hold still.  Yo’re doin’ fine.  Yep, I’m shore glad we stood here a-listenin’ like we have.  Makes me feel a heap easier in my mind about you.  Otherwise I might always have had a doubt I did right.  I’d have been shore, y’ understand, but I wouldn’t have been dead shore.”

At which the unfortunate Rack came within an eyewink of fainting.  As it was his stomach seemed to roll over and over.  He began to feel a little sick.

“The bartender now,” went on Racey after a moment, “is he likely to mix into this?”

“I dunno,” breathed Rack.

“Who is he?  I ain’t been in yore place for some time.”

Rack told him the name of the bartender, and Racey nodded quite as if Rack were facing him and could see everything he did.

“Then that’s all right,” whispered Racey.  “I know that feller.  He’s a friend of Mike Flynn’s.  He won’t do anythin’ 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.