No matter how desperate a situation might be, he could always find in it
something at which to laugh. He laughed going into danger and coming out
of it, with a joke or a pleasantry always trembling on the end of his
tongue.
"Red, did it ever strike you how cussed thirsty a feller gets just
as soon as he knows he can't have no drink? But it don't make much
difference, nohow. We'll get out of this little scrape just as we've
allus got out of trouble. There's some mad war-whoops outside that are
worse off than we are, because they are at the wrong end of yore gun. I
feel sort of sorry for 'em."
"Yo're shore a happy idiot," grinned Red. "Hey! Listen!"
Galloping was heard and Hopalong, running to the door, looked out
through a crack as sudden firing broke out around the rear of the shack,
and fell to pulling away the props, crying, "It's a puncher, Red; he's
riding this way! Come on an' help him in!"
"He's a blamed fool to ride this way! I'm with you!" replied Red,
running to his side.
Half a mile from the house, coming across the open space as fast as he
could urge his horse, rode a cowboy, and not far behind him raced about
a dozen Apaches, yelling and firing.
Red picked up his companion's rifle, and steadying it against the
jamb of the door, fired, dropping one of the foremost of the pursuers.
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