Connors shook so with mirth that the Indian at whom he had fired got
away with a whole skin and cheerfully derided the marksman. "That 'Pache
shore reckons it was you shooting at him, I missed him so far. Now, you
shut up--I want to get some so we can go home. I don't want to stay out
here all night an' the next day as well," Red grumbled, his words dying
slowly in his throat as he voiced other thoughts.
Hopalong caught sight of an Apache who moved cautiously through a
chaparral lying about nine hundred yards away. As long as the distant
enemy lay quietly he could not be discerned, but he was not content
with assured safety and took a chance. Hopalong raised his rifle to his
shoulder as the Indian fired and the latter's bullet, striking the
edge of the hole through which Mr. Cassidy peered, kicked up a generous
handful of dust, some of which found lodgment in that individual's eyes.
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Wow!" yelled the unfortunate, dancing blindly around the
room in rage and pain, and dropping his rifle to grab at his eyes. "Oh!
Oh! Oh!"
His companion wheeled like a flash and grabbed him as he stumbled past.
"Are you plugged bad, Hoppy? Where did they get you? Are you hit bad?"
and Red's heart was in his voice.
"No, I ain't plugged bad!" mimicked Hopalong. "I ain't plugged at all!"
he blazed, kicking enthusiastically at his solicitous friend.
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