"Where's the marshal?" cried Barr, catching sight of Jackson. "Are you
plugged bad?" he asked, anxiously.
"Well, I ain't plugged a whole lot _good_!" snapped Jackson. "An'
Edwards is dead. They shot him down without warning. We're going to get
ours, too--these walls don't stop them bullets. How many out there?"
"Must be a dozen," hastily replied Neal, who had not remained idle. Both
he and Barr were working like mad men moving boxes and barrels against
the walls to make a breastwork capable of stopping the bullets which
came through the boards.
"I reckon--I'm bleeding inside," Jackson muttered, wearily and without
hope. "Wonder how--long we--can hold out?"
"We'll hold out till we're good an' dead!" replied Johnny, hotly. "They
ain't got us yet an' they'll pay for it before they do. If we can hold
'em off till Buck an' the rest come back we'll have the pleasure of
seeing 'em buried."
"Oh, I'll get you next time!" assured Barr to an enemy, slipping a fresh
cartridge into the Sharps and peering intently at a slight rise on the
muddy plain. "You shoot like yo're drunk," he mumbled.
"But what is it all about, anyhow?" asked Neal, finding time for an
immaterial question. "Who are they?--can't see nothing but blurs through
this rain!"
"Yes; what's the game?" asked Barr, mildly surprised that he had not
thought of it before.
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