The crash was terrific. Nebrasky went backward, almost to the wall, working his feet frantically to try to catch up with his body, but went flat on his back. Lonnie caromed off the card-table and landed on his hands and knees, yelling for everybody to get out of his way.
But Kelsey suffered most. He had fallen about three feet on the top of his head, and was still seeing stars. Leach, being of a thoughtful turn of mind, kicked Kelsey’s six-shooter down toward the middle of the room, where it came to rest under a card-table.
Several of the saloon employees, including Clark, the owner, came to Kelsey’s assistance and sat him in a chair, where he caressed his head and made funny noises.
“You boys better go before he wakes up,” advised Clark.
“Is that sho?” asked Lonnie thickly. “Shince when did the Flyin’ H outfit learn t’ run, I’d crave to know?”
“Tha’s my cravin’, likewise,” said Nebrasky, trying to put his hat on upside down. “Whazze-e got any right to git mad ’bout, in the firs’ place? Goo’ness, it was all in fun.”
Kelsey was rapidly recovering, and he knew what had happened. His right hand felt his empty holster, and his eyes searched the floor. He had heard the gun fall when he was upside down.
“It’s under that card-table up there,” said Clark.
Kelsey saw it. He got up slowly and went toward his gun, while the Heavenly Triplets walked straight out through the front doorway. Possibly they did not go straight, but they were out of the saloon when Kelsey recovered his gun.
“I wouldn’t do anything, if I was you, Len,” said Clark. “They were all drunk and didn’t realise.”