Racey nodded indifferently and slouched sidewise so that he could watch the doorway without dislocating his neck. McFluke, his back turned, still stood in the doorway. Racey lowered a cautious hand and loosened his sixshooter in its holster. He wished that he had taken the precaution to tie it down. It was impossible to foresee what the next few minutes might bring forth. Certainly the coming of Peaches Austin was most inopportune.
Peaches Austin galloped up. He dismounted. He tied his horse. He greeted cheerily the glowering McFluke. The latter did not reply in kind.
"This is a fine time for you to get here," he growled. "A fi-ine time."
"Shut up, you fool!" cautioned Peaches in a low voice. "Ain't you got no better sense, with the old man—"
"Don't let the old man worry you," yapped McFluke. "The old man has done flitted. And Jack's been here and he's done flitted."
"Whose hoss is that?" demanded Peaches, evidently referring to Racey's mount.
"One of the boys," replied McFluke. "One o' Jack's friends. C'mon in."
Entered then Peaches Austin, a lithe, muscular person with pale eyes and a face the colour of a dead fish's belly. He stared non-committally at Racey Dawson. It was evident that Peaches Austin was taking no one on trust. He nodded briefly to Racey, and strode to the bar. McFluke went behind the bar.
"Ain't I seen you in Farewell, stranger?" Peaches Austin asked, shortly.
"You might have," returned Racey. "I'm mighty careless where I travel."