The short man gave a short, harsh laugh. "He will, you can gamble on that," he averred, and spat again. "That's good hearing," Racey said, looking quite pleased. "Of course I was only judging by past performances." "His gun caught," Doc Coffin explained, kindly. "Why don't he try filing off his foresight?" inquired Racey, chattily. "Or else he could shoot through his holster. Lots of folks do business that way. I suppose now you'll be seeing Nebraska in a day or two maybe." "I might," admitted Doc Coffin. "Friend of his?" purred Racey. "I might be." Doc Coffin's spare frame grew somewhat rigid. "Well," Racey drawled softly, "I heard Nebraska's friends are looking for me. I'm here to save 'em the trouble of strainin' their eyes." "So that's it, huh?" Doc Coffin grinned, as he spoke, like a grieving wolf. "They ain't no hurry, is they?" "I expect I'll be round Farewell a spell," said Racey. "Then they ain't no hurry," Doc Coffin told him smoothly. "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." "Kicked?" "Shore kicked. Kicked after he was down." "How?" "Didn't you see that feller Dawson kick Bull when he was down? Where was yore eyes?" "That's the way of it, huh? Well, it _might_ save trouble if Bull was to go on the prod real vicious." "Yo're whistlin'. They ain't no manner of reason for doin' a job yoreself if you can get somebody else to do it for you."