ereupon he jogged forward. "What's that?" he shouted,
sitting up very straight. "What's that?"

Red energetically swept the sombrero behind him and pointed to the rear.
"War-whoops! W-a-r w-h-o-o-p-s! Injuns, you chump!" Mr. Connors appeared
to be mildly exasperated.

"Yes?" sarcastically rejoined Mr. Cassidy in his throat, and then
shouted in reply: "Love an' liquor don't mix very well in you. Wake up!
Come out of it!"

"That's straight--I mean it!" cried Mr. Connors, close enough now to
save the remainder of his lungs. "It's a bunch of young bucks on their
first war-trail, I reckon. 'T ain't Geronimo, all right; I wouldn't be
here now if it was. Three of 'em chased me an' the two that are left are
coming hot-foot somewhere the other side of them hills. They act sort of
mad, too."

"Mebby they ain't acting at all," cheerily replied his companion. "An'
then that's the way you got that graze?" pointing to a bloody furrow on
Mr. Connors' cheek. "But just the same it looks like the trail left by a
woman's finger nail."

"Finger nail nothing," retorted Mr. Connors, flushing a little. "But,
for God's sake, are you going to sit here like a wart on a dead dog
an' wait for 'em?" he demanded with a rising inflection. "Do you reckon
yo're running a dance, or a party, or something like that?"

"How many?" placidly inquired Mr. Cassidy, gazing intently towards the
high sky-line of the distant hills.

"Two--an' I won't tell you again, neither!" snapped the owner of the
furrowed cheek. "The others are 'way behind now--but we're standing
_still_!"

"Why didn't you say there was others?" reproved Hopalong. "Naturally
I didn't see no use of getting all het up just because two sprouted
papooses feel like crowding us a bit; it wouldn't be none of _our_
funeral, would it?" and the indignant Mr. Cassidy hurriedly dismounted
and hid his horse in a nearby chaparral and returned to his companion at
a run.

"Red, gimme yore Winchester an' then hustle on for a ways, have an
accident, fall off yore cayuse, an' act scared to death, if you know
how. It's that little trick Buck told us about, an' it shore ought to
work fine here. We'll see if two infant feather-dusters can lick the
Bar-20. Get a-going!"

They traded rifles, Hopalong taking the repeater in place of the
single-shot gun he carried, and Red departed as bidden, his face
gradually breaking into an enthusiastic grin as he ruminated upon the
plan. "Level-headed old cuss; he's