und to be th' risk of accident. But when I give th' word, _you mosey_,
and if one of them pots you, it'll be because my six-shooter's empty."

"But you can't expec' t' shoot _an'_ climb!" objected Tom.

"Course not," replied Alfred, calmly. "Division of labour: you climb; I
shoot."

A light dawned in Tom's eyes, and he shut his jaws with a snap.

"I guess not!" said he, quietly.

"Yo' laigs is longer," Alfred urged, in his gentle voice, "and yo'll get
to Peterson's quicker;" and then he looked in Tom's eyes and changed his
tone. "All right!" he said, in a business-like manner. "I'll toss you
for it."

For reply, Tom fished out an old pack of cards.

"I tell you," he proposed, triumphantly, "I'll turn you fer it. First
man that gits a jack in th' hand-out stays."

He began to manipulate the cards, lying cramped on his side, and in
doing so dropped two or three. Alfred turned to pick them up. Tom deftly
slipped the jack of diamonds to the bottom of the pack. He inserted in
the centre those Alfred handed him, and began at once to deal.

"Thar's yore's," he said, laying out the four of clubs, "an' yere's
mine," he concluded, producing the jack of diamonds. "Luck's ag'in me
early in th' game," was his cheerful comment.

For a minute Alfred was silent, and a decided objection appeared in his
eyes. Then his instinct of fair play in the game took the ascendant. He
kicked off his chaps in the most business-like manner, unbuckled his
six-shooter and gave it to Tom, and perched his hat on the end of his
quirt, which he then raised slowly above the pony's side for the purpose
of drawing the enemy's fire. He did these things quickly and without
heroics, because he was a plainsman. Hardly had the bullets from three
Winchesters spatted against the clay before he was up and climbing for
dear life.

The Mexicans rushed to the opening from either side, fully expecting to
be able either to take wing-shots at close range, or to climb so fast as
to close in before the cowboys would have time to make a stand at the
top. In this they shut off their most effective fire--that of the three
men with the Winchesters--and, instead of getting wing-shots themselves,
they received an enthusiastic battering from Tom at the range of six
yards. Even a tenderfoot cannot over-shoot at six yards. What was left
of the Mexicans disappeared quicker than they had come, and the three of
the Winchesters scuttled back to cover like a spent covey of qua