"I'm sorry," grieved Racey, edging closer to the gambler. "Peaches, yo're breaking my heart with them cruel words."
At this the bartender removed hastily to the other end of the bar. He sensed he knew not what, and he felt instead of curiosity a lively fear. Racey Dawson was the most unexpected sport.
Peaches looked nervously at Racey. A desperate resolve began to formulate itself in the brain of Peaches Austin. His right arm tensed. Slowly his hand slid toward the edge of the bar.
"Why, no," said Racey, who had never been more wide-awake than at that moment, "I wouldn't do anything we'd all be sorry for, Peaches. That is, all of us but you yoreself. You might not be sorry—or anythin' else."
This was threatening language, plain and simple. But it was no bluff. Peaches knew that Racey meant every word he said. Peaches' right hand moved no farther.
"Peaches," said Racey, "le's go where we can have a li'l private talk."
"All right," Peaches acquiesced, shortly, and left the saloon with
Racey.
On the sidewalk they were joined by Swing Tunstall. The latter fell into step on the other side of Peaches Austin.
"Is he coming, too?" queried the gambler, with a marked absence of cordiality in expression and tone.
"He is," answered Racey.