As yet Punch-the-breeze Thompson had remained strictly neutral. His hands were on the table top, and had been from the beginning.
"It's yore move, Thompson," Racey said with significance.
"Then I'll be goin'," said Thompson, calmly. "See you later—maybe."
So saying he rose to his feet, turned his back on Racey, and walked out of the place. Racey had no illusions as to Thompson, but he obviously could not shoot him in the back. He let him go. Watching from a window he saw Thompson go to the hitching-rail in front of the saloon, untie his horse, mount, and ride away northward.
And the blacksmith shop in front of which Peaches Austin was supposed to be on guard lay at the south end of the street. Where, then, was Thompson going?
"Where's he goin'?" he demanded of the now wriggling Rack Slimson.
"Huh? Who? Punch? I dunno."
"Where's Jack Harpe?"
"I dunno."
"Yo're a liar. Where is he?"