Without removing his eyes from the two aforementioned gentlemen Racey reached for the bartender's gun. "Hadn't oughta be trusted with firearms," he observed, pleasantly, referring to what lay behind the bar. "Too venturesome. Yeah."
He thoughtfully lowered the hammer of the sixshooter and rammed it down to the trigger-guard behind the waistband of his trousers.
"Do you gents know anybody named Doc Coffin?" inquired Racey.
"I'm him," nodded the tall man, the pale eyes beginning to glitter.
"Then maybe you can tell me how Nebraska Jones is gettin' along?"
"You worrying about his health?" put in the short man.
"I dunno as I'd say 'worrying' exactly," disclaimed Racey, easily.
"You can take it I'm just askin', that's all."
"Nebraska had oughta be as well as ever he was in about a month," supplied Doc Coffin. "And," he added, significantly, "I dunno but what he'd oughta be able to shoot as well as ever."
"I don't doubt it a mite," said Racey with a smile. "Question is, will he?"
The short man gave a short, harsh laugh. "He will, you can gamble on that," he averred, and spat again.