Racey Dawson gazed dumbly down at the muzzle of his sixshooter from
which a slim curl of gray smoke spiralled lazily upward. Then his eyes
veered to the man he had shot and to the man's sixshooter lying on the
edge of the sidewalk. It, too, like his own gun, was thinly smoking at
the muzzle. The burly youth put a hand to his shoulder. The fingers
came away red. Racey was glad he had not killed him. He had not
intended to. But accidents will happen.

He stepped forward and kicked the burly youth's discarded sixshooter
into the middle of the street. He looked about him. The girl and her
dog had vanished.

Kansas Casey had taken her place apparently. From windows and doorways
along the street peered interested faces. One knew that they were
interested despite their careful lack of all expression. It is never
well to openly express approval of a shooting. The shooter undoubtedly
has friends, and little breaches of etiquette are always remembered.

Racey Dawson looked at Kansas Casey and shoved his sixshooter down
into its holster.

"It was an even break," announced Racey.

"Shore," Kansas nodded. "I seen it. There'll be no trouble--from us,"
he added, significantly.

The deputy sheriff knelt beside the wounded man. Racey Dawson went
into the Happy Heart. He felt that he needed a drink. When he came out
five minutes later the burly youth had been carried away. Remained a