Rolling a barrel of
flour against the wall below the window he fixed himself as comfortably
as possible and threw a shell into the chamber.
"Now, you coyotes; you pay _me_ for _that_!" he gritted, resting the gun
on the window sill and holding it so he could work it with one hand and
shoulder.
"Wonder how them pups ever pumped up enough courage to cut loose like
this?" queried Neal from behind his flour barrel.
"Whiskey," hazarded Barr. "Harlan must 'a' got 'em drunk. An' that's
three times I've missed that snake. Wish it would stop raining so I
could see better."
"Why don't you wish they'd all drop dead? Wish good when you wish
at all: got as much chance of having it come true," responded Neal,
sarcastically. He smothered a curse and looked curiously at his left
arm, and from it to the new, yellow-splintered hole in the wall, which
was already turning dark from the water soaking into it. "Hey, Joe; we
need some more boxes!" he exclaimed, again looking at his arm.
"Yes," came Johnny's voice. "Three of 'em--five of 'em, an' about six
feet long an' a foot deep. But if my outfit gets here in time we'll want
more'n a dozen."
"Say! Lacey's firing now!" suddenly cried Barr. "He's shooting out
of his windy. That'll stop 'em from rushing us! Good boy, Lacey!" he
shouted, but Lacey did not hear him in the uproar.
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