, and Ellhorn sent a pistol ball whizzing past them. They
replied in kind and a quick fusillade began. Tuttle rode silently
beside his companion, not even drawing his six-shooter from its
holster. A bullet bit into the rim of his sombrero, and he grumbled a
big oath under his breath. Another nicked the ear of Ellhorn's horse.
In the wagon, the Mexican was crouched in the bottom, shooting from
behind the seat, apparently taking careful aim. The tall man stood up,
lashing the horses furiously. He turned, holding the reins in one
hand, and with the other discharged another volley, necessarily
somewhat at random. But it came near doing good execution, for one
bullet went through Tuttle's sleeve and another singed the shoulder of
Ellhorn's coat.

"Whee-ee-e!" shouted Ellhorn. "Sure, and I've winged him! I've hit the
big one in the leg!"

The next moment his pistol dropped to the ground. A bullet from the
Mexican's Winchester had plowed through his right arm. Tuttle, who had
not even put hand to his revolver, drew rein beside him while the
other men stopped shooting and devoted all their energies to getting
away as quickly as possible. Tuttle tore strips from his shirt with
which to bind Ellhorn's wound, and persuaded him to return to Las
Plumas, where he could have the services of a physician.

"I guess I'll have to, Tom," he said regretfully. "I'd like to go
after 'em and finish this job up right now. I got one into the big
one, but that's nothin' to what they deserve. Lord! but they need to
be peppered full of holes! But I can't fight now, and you won't, so
it's no use."

As they rode back Tuttle said: "You say that Emerson's up to his ears
in fight? What's it about? That cattle business?"

"Yes, that's it. You know he's been havin' trouble for some time with
Colonel Whittaker and the Fillmore Cattle Company, and I reckon hell's
a-popping over there by this time. Colonel Whittaker--he's manager of
the company now, and one of the stock-holders--wants to corral the
whole blamed country for his range. Well, there's Emerson Mead has had
his range for the last five years, and Willet still longer, and
McAlvin and Brewer, they've been there a long time, too, and they all
say they've got more right to the range than the company has, because
they own the water holes, and they don't propose to be crowded out by
no corporation. But I reckon they'll have to fight for their rights if
they get 'em."

"How's Whittaker off for men