"Want to shove me off?" snarled Charley, angrily. "For heaven's sake,
Duke, do you want the whole earth?" he demanded of his second companion.
"You just bet yore shirt I do! An' I want a hole in it, too!"
"Ain't you got no sense?"
"Would I be up here if I had?"
"It's going to be hot as blazes up here when the sun gets high,"
cheerfully prophesied Tim: "an' dry, too," he added for a finishing
touch.
"We'll be lucky if we're live enough to worry about the sun's
heat--_say_, that was a _close_ one!" exclaimed Duke, frantically trying
to flatten a little more. "Ah, thought so--there's that blamed moon!"
"Wish I'd gone out the window instead," growled Charley, worming behind
Duke, to the latter's prompt displeasure.
"You fellers better come down, one at a time," came from below. "Send
yore guns down first, too. Red's a blamed good shot."
"Hope he croaks," muttered Duke. "_That's_ closer yet!"
Tim's hand raised and a flash of fire singed Charley's hair. "Got to do
something, anyhow," he explained, lowering the Colt and peering across
the plain.
"You damned near succeeded!" shouted Charley, grabbing at his head.
"Why, they're three hundred, an' you trying for 'em with a--_oh!_" he
moaned, writhing.
"Locoed fool!" swore Duke, "showing 'em where we are! They're doing good
enough as it is! You ought--got _you_, too!"
"_I'm_ going down--that blamed fool out there ain't caring what he
hits," mumbled Charley, clenching his hands from pain.
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