He rode soberly, as one bound on a journey of length. Even as Marie had done he glimpsed the three men and turned his horse toward them. Ten feet from the flank of Racey Dawson's mount he pulled in and nodded. There was spite—spite and something else—in the gaze he fixed on Racey Dawson.
"Yore friend's hurt," said he. "Got in a fight."
"Hurt bad?" asked Racey.
"Not too bad. I've seen worse."
"Where's he hurt?"
Rack Slimson merely corroborated what Marie had said. So far he seemed to be telling the truth. And it was natural that there should be spite in his eyes. He had no cause to feel affection for either man. But there was the "something else" besides the spite in those eyes. That was what interested Racey.
"You come here special to tell me this?" said Racey, staring.
"Not me," denied Rack Slimson. "I was just passing by, and I thought
I'd let you know."
"Just bein' neighbourly, huh?"
"I dunno as I'd go so far as to say that."