Quickly reloading again, he fired and missed. The third shot struck
another horse, and then taking up his own gun he began to fire rapidly,
as rapidly as he could work the lever and yet make his shots tell.
Hopalong drew his Colt and ran back to watch the rear of the house, and
it was well that he did so, for an Apache in that direction, believing
that the trapped punchers were so busily engaged with the new
developments as to forget for the moment, sprinted towards the
back window; and he had gotten within twenty paces of the goal when
Hopalong's Colt cracked a protest. Seeing that the warrior was no longer
a combatant, Mr. Cassidy ran back to the door just as the stranger fell
from his horse and crawled past Red. The door slammed shut, the props
fell against it, and the two friends turned to the work of driving back
the second band, which, however, had given up all hope of rushing the
house in the face of Red's telling fire, and had sought cover instead.
The stranger dragged himself to the canteens and drank what little water
remained, and then turned to watch the two men moving from place to
place, firing coolly and methodically. He thought he recognized one of
them from the descriptions he had heard, but he was not sure.
"My name's Holden," he whispered hoarsely, but the cracking of the
rifles drowned his voice.
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