"None a-tall," contributed the short man.
"That's the way to look at it," laughed Racey. "I shore don't care anything about bein' pushed. Have a drink on me."
He slid in their direction the bottle with which he had knocked down the bartender, and, accompanied and imitated by Swing Tunstall, departed from that place crabwise.
When they were gone Doc Coffin looked at his companion.
"Asking for it, Honey," said Doc Coffin. "Just asking for it."
Then he went behind the bar, seized the senseless bartender by the ankles and skidded him out on the barroom floor. The man whom Doc Coffin had addressed as Honey (his other name was Hoke) spread his legs and whistled when he glimpsed the three-inch cut running fore and aft along the top of the bartender's skull. Blood from that cut had dribbled and oozed over the major portion of the bartender's face and shirt. For it had been the bartender's luck to hook his chin on the edge of the lowest shelf when he dropped and he had perforce remained crown upward.
Doc Coffin stood back and stared at the stertorously breathing lump on the floor with a cold eye.
"Ain't he a mess?" he observed. "Ain't he a mess? I expect he'll be right down peevish about it when he comes to."
"Think so?" Honey Hoke was not quite sure of the point of Doc's remark.
"Yeah, I think so. I'm shore he will when I tell him how he was kicked."