"Don't strain yoreself reckonin'," advised Loudon.
"I won't. So long, gents."
With an airy wave of his head Bill Archer left the barroom.
Inch by inch the head of the bartender uprose from behind the breastwork of the bar. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun rose with the head. When Loudon holstered his six-shooter the bartender replaced the sawed-off shotgun on the hooks behind the bar.
"Well, sir, gents," remarked the bartender with an audible sigh of relief, "which I'm never so glad in my life when Skinny Maxson don't pull that derringer. She's a .41 that derringer is, the bar's right in the line o' fire—it ain't none too thick—an' Skinny always shoots wide with a derringer. Gents, the drinks are on the house. What'll yuh have?"
"Yo're a Christian," grinned Loudon. "Is Skinny Maxson anythin' special 'round here?"
"He's a friend o' Bill Archer's," replied the bartender, "an' he's got—I mean he had a reputation. I knowed he was lightning on the draw till I seen you—I mean till I didn't see yuh pull yore gun. Mr. Franklin, that was shore the best exhibition o' quick drawin' I ever seen, an' I used to work in Dodge City. Good thing yuh was some swift. Skinny don't shoot a six-gun like he does a derringer. No, not for a minute he don't! But look out for Skinny's brother Luke. He's got a worse temper'n Skinny, an' he's a better shot. This nickin' o' Skinny is a heap likely to make him paint for war. He's out o' town just now."
A clatter of running feet was heard in the street. Through the doorway bounded a stocky citizen, blood in his eye, and a shotgun in his hand.
"Where's the —— shot Skinny!" he howled.
"Luke!" cried the bartender, and dived beneath the bar.