"I didn't! I didn't! I—"
"Aw right you didn't. In that case you got nothing to scare you. If Doc and his outfit ain't got any harsh thoughts against me they won't shoot when we run up on 'em. That'll prove yo're telling the truth, and I'll beg yore pardon. I'll do more'n beg yore pardon. I'll eat yore shirt an' my saddle."
Racey's assurance that he would do the right thing if his suspicions proved unfounded did not appear to cheer Rack Slimson.
"I—lookit here," he began, desperately, "can't we fix this here up some way? I dunno as—"
"Shore we can fix it up," interposed Racey, heartily. "Go after yore gun any time you feel like it. I been letting you keep it on purpose."
Rack Slimson did not accept the invitation. He had not the slightest desire to go after his gun. He was not fast enough, and he knew it.
"It ain't necessary to do that," said he.
"Suit yoreself," Racey told him calmly. "Hop into action any time you feel like it. Of course before we get to that draw outside Farewell where we're gonna leave our hosses I'll have to take yore gun away. Later I might be too busy to do it—and I can't afford to take every chance. Not with four or five men. You can see that yoreself."
Rack Slimson saw. He saw other things too. Oh, there was no warmth in the sunlight, and the sky was a drabby gray, and he was filled with bitterness unutterable.
"We'll be at the draw some time soon," suggested Racey ten minutes later.