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 away northward.

And the blacksmith shop in front of which Peaches Austin was supposed to be on guard lay at the south end of the street.  Where, then, was Thompson going?

“Where’s he goin’?” he demanded of the now wriggling Rack Slimson.

“Huh?  Who?  Punch?  I dunno.”

“Where’s Jack Harpe?”

“I dunno.”

“Yo’re a liar.  Where is he?”

“I dunno!  I dunno!  I tell you!  Yo’re gug-gug-chokin’ me!”

“Yo’re lying again.  If I was choking you you couldn’t talk.  Yo’re talkin’, ain’t you?  Where’s Jack Harpe?”

“I dud-dud-dunno,” insisted Rack Slimson, his teeth chattering as Racey shook him.

“Is he in town?”

“I dud-dunno.”

“Is Thompson going after him, do you think?”

“I dud-dunny-dunno!”

“I guess maybe you don’t, after all,” Racey said, disgustedly, flinging the unfortunate saloon-keeper from him with such force that the fellow skittered quite across the floor and sat down in the washpan into which the bartender was accustomed to throw the broken glassware.

“Ow-wow!” It was a hearty, full-lunged howl that Rack Slimson uttered as he bounded erect and clutched at his trousers.

Racey’s eyes brightened at the sight.  “Y’ oughta known better than to sit down in all that glass.  I could ‘a’ told you you’d get prickles in you.  Why don’t you stand still and let yore barkeep pick ’em out for you?  You can get at most of the big pieces with yore fingers,” he added to the bartender, who was gingerly emerging on all fours round the end of the bar.  “And the little ones you can dig out with a sharp knife.  Yep, Rack, old-timer, I’ll bet you won’t carry any more messages on horseback for a while.”