Racey Dawson shambled dejectedly forth to effect the feeding of Miss Molly Dale’s horse at the hotel corral.  For his own breakfast he went to Sing Luey’s Canton Restaurant.  Because while Bill Lainey offered no objections to feeding the horse, Mrs. Lainey utterly refused to provide snacks at odd hours for good-for-nothing, stick-a-bed punchers who were too lazy to eat at the regular meal-time.  So there, now.

“But I ain’t gonna shave,” he told himself, as he disposed of fried steak and potatoes sloshed down by several cups of coffee.  “If she’s a old maid like they say it don’t matter how tough I look.”

He was reflectively stirring the grounds in the bottom of his sixth cup when a small and frightened yellow dog dashed into the restaurant and fled underneath Racey’s table, where he cowered next to Racey’s boots and cuddled a lop-eared head against Racey’s knee.

Racey had barely time to glance down and discover that the yellow nondescript was no more than a pup when a burly youth charged into the restaurant and demanded in no uncertain tones to know where that adjective dog had hidden himself.

Racey took an instant dislike to the burly youth, still—­it was his dog.  And it is a custom of the country to let every man, as the saying is, skin his own deer.  He that takes exception to this custom and horns in on what cannot rightfully be termed his particular business, will find public opinion dead against him and his journey unseasonably full of incident.

Racey moved a leg.  “This him, stranger?”

The burly youth (it was evident that he was not wholly sober) glared at Racey Dawson.  “Shore it’s him!” he declared.  “Whatell you hidin’ him for?  Get outa the way!”

Whereupon the burly youth advanced upon Racey.

This was different.  Oh, quite.  The burly youth had by his brusque manner and rude remarks included Racey in his (the burly youth’s) business.

Racey met the burly youth rather more than halfway.  He hit him so hard on the nose that the other flipped backward through the doorway and landed on his ear on the sidewalk.

Racey followed him out.  The burly youth, bleeding copiously from the nose, sat up and fumbled uncertainly for his gun.

“No,” said Racey with decision, aiming his sixshooter at the word.  “You leave that gun alone, and lemme tell you, stranger, while we’re together, that I want to buy that pup of yores.  A gent like you ain’t fit company for a self-respecting dog to associate with.  Nawsir.”

“You got the drop,” grumbled the burly youth.

“Which is one on you,” Racey observed, good-humouredly.

“Maybe I’ll be seein’ you again,” suggested the other.

“Don’t lemme see you first,” advised Racey.  “Never mind getting up.  Just sit nice and quiet like a good boy, and keep the li’l hands spread out all so pretty with the thumbs locked over yore head.  ’At’s the boy.  How much for yore dog, feller?”