“Do you gents know anybody named Doc Coffin?” inquired Racey.

“I’m him,” nodded the tall man, the pale eyes beginning to glitter.

“Then maybe you can tell me how Nebraska Jones is gettin’ along?”

“You worrying about his health?” put in the short man.

“I dunno as I’d say ‘worrying’ exactly,” disclaimed Racey, easily.  “You can take it I’m just askin’, that’s all.”

“Nebraska had oughta be as well as ever he was in about a month,” supplied Doc Coffin.  “And,” he added, significantly, “I dunno but what he’d oughta be able to shoot as well as ever.”

“I don’t doubt it a mite,” said Racey with a smile.  “Question is, will he?”

The short man gave a short, harsh laugh.  “He will, you can gamble on that,” he averred, and spat again.

“That’s good hearing,” Racey said, looking quite pleased.  “Of course I was only judging by past performances.”

“His gun caught,” Doc Coffin explained, kindly.

“Why don’t he try filing off his foresight?” inquired Racey, chattily.  “Or else he could shoot through his holster.  Lots of folks do business that way.  I suppose now you’ll be seeing Nebraska in a day or two maybe.”

“I might,” admitted Doc Coffin.

“Friend of his?” purred Racey.

“I might be.”  Doc Coffin’s spare frame grew somewhat rigid.

“Well,” Racey drawled softly, “I heard Nebraska’s friends are looking for me.  I’m here to save ’em the trouble of strainin’ their eyes.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Doc Coffin grinned, as he spoke, like a grieving wolf.  “They ain’t no hurry, is they?”

“I expect I’ll be round Farewell a spell,” said Racey.

“Then they ain’t no hurry,” Doc Coffin told him smoothly.

“None a-tall,” contributed the short man.

“That’s the way to look at it,” laughed Racey.  “I shore don’t care anything about bein’ pushed.  Have a drink on me.”

He slid in their direction the bottle with which he had knocked down the bartender, and, accompanied and imitated by Swing Tunstall, departed from that place crabwise.

When they were gone Doc Coffin looked at his companion.

“Asking for it, Honey,” said Doc Coffin.  “Just asking for it.”

Then he went behind the bar, seized the senseless bartender by the ankles and skidded him out on the barroom floor.  The man whom Doc Coffin had addressed as Honey (his other name was Hoke) spread his legs and whistled when he glimpsed the three-inch cut running fore and aft along the top of the bartender’s skull.  Blood from that cut had dribbled and oozed over the major portion of the bartender’s face and shirt.  For it had been the bartender’s luck to hook his chin on the edge of the lowest shelf when he dropped and he had perforce remained crown upward.

Doc Coffin stood back and stared at the stertorously breathing lump on the floor with a cold eye.