"I was talking to Thompson," Racey reminded the lawyer. "When I want to ask you any questions I'll let you know." "Huh," Luke contented himself with grunting, and subsided. "No fuss a-tall, Thompson?" resumed Racey. "Nary a fuss." "And you was here alla time Dale was here?" "I was here before Dale come, and I was still here when Dale--went away." "In the same room with him?" "In this room, yeah. In the same room with him alla time. Shore." "Then if Dale had had a riot with anybody else but the stranger man you'd 'a' knowed it." "You betcha. He didn't have no trouble, only with the stranger." "Did anybody else have any trouble with anybody while you was here?" At this Thompson frowned. Where were Racey's questions leading him? Was it a trap? Knowing Racey as he did, he feared the worst. He would have liked to leave the questioned unanswered. But this was impossible. As it was, he was delaying his answer longer than good sense warranted. Both Jake Rule and Kansas Casey were staring at him fixedly. Racey regarded him steadily, a slight and sinister smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. "Well," prompted Racey, "you'd oughta be able to tell us whether there was any other fights while you was here?" "They wasn't," plunged Thompson. "Everything was salubrious till Dale started his battle." "And when did you get here?" pursued Racey. "Oh, I'd been here all night." "And you dunno of any other brush except the one between Dale and the stranger?" "I done said so forty times," Thompson declared, peevishly. "How many times have I gotta repeat it?" "As many times as yo're asked," put in the sheriff, sharply. "Didja see anybody get hurt--have a accident or something while you were here, Thompson?" Racey bored on. Thompson shook an impatient head. "Nobody got hurt or had a accident." "Then," said Racey, turning suddenly on McFluke, "how did you get that black eye?" CHAPTER XXI GONE AWAY! McFluke's eyes flickered at the question. His body appeared to sink inward. Then he straightened, and flung back his wide shoulders, and glowered at Racey Dawson. "I ran into a door this morning," said the saloon-keeper in a tone of the utmost confidence. "Oh, you ran into a door, did you," Racey observed, sweetly. "And what particular door did you run into?" "The front door." "That one?" Racey indicated the door of the barroom. "That one." "We'll just take a look at that door." Accompanied by the deeply interested sheriff, who was beginning to sniff his quarry like the old bloodhound he was, Racey crossed to the barroom door. He looked at the door. He looked at the sheriff. The sheriff looked only at the door. "Door's opened back flat against the wall, Mac," said the sheriff. "Was she like this when you ran into her?" "Course not," was the heated reply. "She was swingin' open." Racey squatted down on the floor. "Lookit here, Sheriff."