“Yo’re like Luke Tweezy thataway,” cut in Racey.  “That’s what he’s always doing.”

“Who’s Luke Tweezy?”

“So you’ve learned yore lesson,” chuckled Racey.  “It was about time.  Guess you must ‘a’ bothered Luke Tweezy some when you spoke to him that day in front of the Happy Heart just before you and Lanpher crawled yore cayuses and rode to Dale’s on Soogan Creek....  Don’t remember, huh?  I do.  You said, ‘See you later, Luke,’ and he didn’t speak back.  Just kept on untying his hoss and keeping his head bent down like he hadn’t heard a word you said.  ’S’funny, huh?”

“Damfunny,” assented Jack Harpe with an odd smoothness.

“Yeah, you fellers that don’t know each other are all of that.  Tell me something, do you meet in the cemetery by a dead nigger’s grave in the dark of the moon at midnight or what?  I’m free to admit I’m puzzled.  She’s all a heap too mysterious for me.”

“Crazy talk,” commented Jack Harpe.  “You been wallowing in the nosepaint and letting yore imagination run on the range too much.”

“Maybe,” Racey said, equably.  “Maybe.  You can’t tell.  As a young one I had a powerful imagination.  I might have it yet.”

Jack Harpe gazed long and silently at Racey Dawson.  The latter returned the stare with interest.  With the sixth sense possessed by most men who live in a country where the law and the sixshooter are practically synonymous terms, Racey was conscious that Marie, the Happy Heart Lookout, had suddenly drifted up to his left flank and now stood with arms akimbo on the inner edge of the sidewalk.  Her body was turned partly toward him but her head was turned wholly away.  Evidently there was something of interest farther up the street.

Racey moved slightly to the left.  He wished to have a little more light on Jack Harpe’s right side.  The Harpe right hand—­it was in the shadow.  Jack Harpe pivoted to face Racey.  The light from the hotel window fell on the right hand.  The member was near the gun butt, but not suggestively near.

“Listen here,” said Jack Harpe, suddenly, in a snarling whisper designed solely for the ears of Racey Dawson, “I dunno what you been a-drivin’ at, but just for yore better information I’m telling you that I always get what I go after.  Whether it’s land, cows, horses, or—­women, I get what I want.  Nothing ever has stopped me.  Nothing ever will stop me.  Don’t forget.”

“Thanks,” smiled Racey.  “I’ll try not to.”

“And here’s somethin’ else:  What I take I keep—­always.”

“Always is a long word.”

“There’s a longer.”

“What?”

“Death.”

“Meanin’?”

“That folks who ain’t for me are against me.  Looks like yore friend there wanted to talk to you.  So long.”

Abruptly Jack Harpe faced about and went into the hotel.  Racey felt a touch on his arm.  He turned to find that Marie had almost bumped into him.  Her head was still turned away.  One of her hands was groping for his arm.  Her fingers clutched his wrist, then slid upward to the crook of his elbow.