“Haven’t Silvertip Ransom and Long Oscar got a claim some’ers over yonder on Dale’s land?” inquired Racey, looking toward the northerly ridge.

“They had, but they got discouraged and sold out to Dale the same time Slippery Wilson and his wife traded in their claims on the other side of the ridge to Old Salt and Tom Loudon.  None of ’em’s worth anything, though.”

Racey nodded.  “Dale ever drink much?” was his next question.

“He used to before he come here.  But he took the cure and quit.  To-day’s the first bust-up he’s had since he hit this country.”

“That’s it, then.  Luke gave him the redeye so’s he’d be easy meat for the butcher.  Does he ever gamble any?”

“Shore—­before he came West.  Jane done told me how back East in McPherson, Kansas, he used to go the limit forty ways—­liquor, cards, the whole layout o’ hellraising.  But his habits rode him to a frazzle final and he knuckled under to tooberclosis, and they only saved his life by fetchin’ him West.  All of us thought he was cured for good.”

“Now Luke Tweezy has started him off so’s Nebraska—­Peaches Austin, I mean, can get in his fine work.  It’s plain enough.”

“Shore,” assented Chuck Morgan.  “Yonder’s McFluke’s,” he added, nodding toward two gray-brown log and shake shacks and a stockaded corral roosting on the high ground beyond the belt of cottonwoods and willows marking the course of the Lazy.  “Them’s his stables and corral,” went on Chuck.  “The house she’s down near the river.  Can’t see her on account of the cottonwoods.”

“And they can’t see us count of the cottonwoods.  So—­”

“Unless he’s at the corral.”

“I’ll take the chance, Chuck.  You stay here—­down that draw is a good place.  I’ll go on alone.  McFluke don’t know me.  Maybe I can find out something, see.  Bimeby you come along—­half-hour, maybe.  You don’t know me, either.  I’ll get into conversation with you.  You follow my lead.  We’ll pull McFluke in if we can.  Between the two of us—­Well, anyhow, we’ll see what he says.”

Chuck Morgan nodded, and turned his horse aside toward the draw.

Ten minutes later the water of the Lazy River was sluicing the dust from the legs and belly of Racey Dawson’s horse.  Racey spurred up the bank and rode toward the long, low building that was McFluke’s store and saloon.

There were no ponies standing at the hitching-rail in front of the place.  For this Racey was devoutly thankful.  If he could only catch McFluke by himself.

As Racey dismounted at the rail a man came to the open doorway of the house and looked at him.  He was a heavy-set man, dewlapped like a bloodhound, and his hard blue eyes were close-coupled.  The reptilian forehead did not signify a superior mentality, even as the slack, retreating chin denoted a minimum of courage.  It was a most contradictory face.  The features did not balance.  Racey Dawson was not a student of physiognomy, but he recognized a weak chin when he saw it.  If this man were indeed McFluke, then he, Racey Dawson, was in luck.