"Aw, who's takin' too much?" flung back Honey Hoke.
"Well, you don't see the rest of us touching a single drop, do you? Speaking personal, I wouldn't drown my insides with liquor when I'm due to go up against a proposition like Racey Dawson."
Here was praise indeed. Racey thumbed Rack Slimson in the ribs. Rack turned his head and saw that Racey was grinning. Rack grew even more spineless.
"You see," pointed out Racey in a sardonic whisper. "Yo're up against the pure quill, feller."
Which remark at any other time would have been in the worst possible taste, but license is extended to men in peril of their lives.
"They're at the table in the corner beside the bar, this end, ain't they?" resumed Racey. "Ain't it lucky the door opens that way?"
Then he was silent for a time while he strove to catch the accents of Peaches Austin. He wanted to know if they were all four at the one table. But Peaches was either not talking or elsewhere. A moment later the question was answered for him by Honey Hoke.
"If he slips by Peaches without Peaches seem' him—" began Honey.
"Aw, hownell can he?" sneered Doc Coffin. "They's Peaches camped down in front of the blacksmith shop right where he can see the trail alla way down Injun Ridge. A dog couldn't get past Peaches without being seen, let alone a two-legged man on a four-legged hoss."
"S'pose he goes round the ridge," offered the doubter, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head.