When at long last the draw opened before them Racey calmly reached over and removed the saloon-keeper's sixshooter. After satisfying himself that the weapon was fully loaded he stuffed it down inside the waistband of his trousers. Then he buttoned the two lower buttons of his vest and pulled the garment in question over the protruding butt. For a space of time they rode the bottom of the draw. Where a few heavy willows grew about a tiny spring Racey pulled in. "We'll leave the cayuses here," said he. "We're right close in back of Marie's shack." They dismounted, tied the horses to separate willows, and climbed the side of the draw. "No hurry," cautioned Racey, for Rack Slimson was showing signs of a nervous haste. "Besides, I want to pat you all over for a hideout." Behind the blind end of Marie's shack Rack Slimson submitted to being searched for concealed weapons. Racey found none, not even a pocket-knife. "Let's go," said Racey Dawson. "We'll go to yore saloon first. And you pray hard that nobody sees us from the back window." They diagonalled down past the stage company's corral to the house next door to the Starlight. "They haven't seen us yet," Racey observed, cheerfully, to Rack Slimson whose wretched knees had been knocking together ever since he had dismounted. "Slide over this way a li'l more, Rack. Now take off yore spurs." Racey stooped and removed his own. And not for an instant did he lose the magic of the drop. As a matter of fact, he had kept Rack covered from the moment Rack set his boot-soles to earth. Rack's spurs jingled on the ground. Racey let them lie. His own spurs he jammed each into a hip pocket. "I'll have to be careful how I sit down now," he remarked, jocularly, to Rack Slimson. "You ready? Aw right. You know the way to the Starlight's back door." The back door of the saloon was wide open. They entered on tiptoe, the proprietor in the lead. "Remember," whispered Racey, when he discovered the back room to be empty, "remember, I'm right behind you. Keep on yore toes." He held Rack Slimson by the belt and pushed him toward the door giving into the front room. This door was shut. They paused behind it. "He oughta be along pretty soon," complained a fretful voice that Racey recognized as belonging to Honey Hoke. "We don't mind waiting," chimed in Punch-the-breeze Thompson. "It's the best thing we do." This was big Doc Coffin speaking. The two behind the door heard a bottle-neck clink against the rim of a glass. "You better not take too much," advised Thompson. "Aw, who's takin' too much?" flung back Honey Hoke. "Well, you don't see the rest of us touching a single drop, do you? Speaking personal, I wouldn't drown _my_ insides with liquor when I'm due to go up against a proposition like Racey Dawson." Here was praise indeed. Racey thumbed Rack Slimson in the ribs. Rack turned his head and saw that Racey was grinning. Rack grew even more spineless.