h. Billy protected the horses, Hopalong
and Skinny swept the knoll with a plunging fire, and Lanky and Buck lay
in the course the besieged would most likely take if they tried a dash.
Off to the east Red barred them from creeping down the arroyo, and from
where Pete was he could creep up to within sixty yards if he chose the
right rocks. The ranges varied from four hundred yards for Buck to sixty
for Pete, and the others averaged close to three hundred, which allowed
very good shooting on both sides.

Hopalong and Skinny gradually moved nearer to each other for
companionship, and as the former raised his head to see what the others
were doing he received a graze on the ear.

"Wow!" he yelled, rubbing the tingling member.

Two puffs of smoke floated up from the knoll, and Skinny swore.

"Where'd he get yu, Fat?" asked Hopalong.

"G'wan, don't get funny, son," replied Skinny.

Jets of smoke arose from the north and east, where Buck and Red were
stationed, and Pete was half way to the knoll. So far he hadn't been hit
as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a run of
five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head. Another dash and his
empty holster was ripped from its support. As he crouched behind a rock
he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested individual waving
his sombrero to cheer him on. An angry pang! from the knoll caused that
enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.

"Locoed son-of-a-gun," complained Pete. "He'll shore git potted." Then
he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive spurts of
dust.

"How's business, Billy?" he called pleasantly.

"Oh, they'll git me yet," responded the pessimist. "Yu needn't git
anxious. If that off buck wasn't so green he'd 'a' had me long ago."

"Ya-hoo! Pete! Oh, Pete!" called Hopalong, sticking his head out at one
side and grinning as the wondering object of his hail craned his neck to
see what the matter was.

"Huh?" grunted Pete, and then remembering the distance he shouted,
"What's th' matter?"

"Got any cigarettes?" asked Hopalong.

"Yu poor sheep!" said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45 into
a yellow moccasin.

Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then the
cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in it. He
fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a hit.
"Go 'way!" he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose. Then he
sc