were as close as they
could get to the grove without being seen, "I calc'late about the best
thing we kin do, boys, is t' spur up our hosses and ride in amongst 'em
shooting and a-hollerin'. Mebby we kin jest natcherlay stampede 'em--but
we've sure got t' git through In' git under cover mighty dang suddent,
er they'll come to theirselves an' wipe us clean off'n the map--if
they's enough of 'em. These here that's comin' along after us, they'll
help t' swell the party, oncet they git here. I calc'late they figger
't we're runnin' head-on into a mess uh trouble, 'n' they don't want t'
colleck any stray bullets--'n' that's why they've dropped back in the
last half mile er so. Haze them pack bosses up this way, Pink, so'st
they won't git caught up 'fore they git t' what the rest air. Best use
yore six-guns fer this, boys--that'll leave ye one hand t' guide yore
bosses with, and they're handier all around in close--work. Air ye
ready? Then come on--foller me 'n' come a-whoopin'!"

A-whooping they came, up out of the draw and in among the trees as
though they had a regiment behind them. Certain crouching figures
jumped, sent startled glances behind them and ran like partridges
for cover farther on. Only one or two paused to send a shot at these
charging fiends who seemed bent on riding them down and who yelled like
devils turned loose from the pit. And before they had found safe
covert on the farther fringes of the grove and were ready to meet the
onslaught, the clamor had ceased and the white men had joined those
others among the rocks.

So now there were nine men cornered here on the edge of the Frying-pan,
with no water for their horses and not much hope of getting out of
there.

"Darn you, Applehead, why didn't you keep out of this mess?" Luck
demanded with his mouth drawn down viciously at the corners and his eyes
warm with affection and gratitude. "What possessed your fool heart to
ride into this trap?"

"We-ell, dang it, we had t' ride som'ers, didn't we?" Applehead, safe
behind a bowlder, pulled off his greasy, gray Stetson and polished his
bald head disconcertedly. "Had a bunch uh Navvies hangin' t' our heels
like tumbleweed--'n' we been doin' some RIDIN', now, I'm a tellin' ye!
'F Lite, here, hadn't kep' droppin' one now an' then fur the rest t'
devour, I calc'late we'd bin et up, a mile er two back!"

Lite looked up from shoving more cartridges into his rifle-magazine. "If
we hadn't had a real, simon-pure go-g