"Git down low," McHale advised, hugging a bowlder.
"I am down," said Sandy.
"Then dig a hole." McHale laughed, and then swore as a sharp fragment of rock ripped his cheek.
"Hit you?"
"Nope. Rock sliver. I'll bet their guns is gettin' hot. This won't last."
The fusillade ceased. McHale shoved his rifle barrel through a crevice.
"Maybe some gent will stick out his head to see how many corpses there is of us. This light's gettin' durn bad. I wish I had an ivory foresight, 'stead o' this gold bead. I can't see——"
His rifle muzzle leaped in recoil as he spoke. Two hundred yards away a man making a rush forward for a closer position winced and half halted. Instantly Sandy's rifle lanced the dimming light with a twelve-foot shaft of flame. The man straightened, staggered, and threw both arms upward as if to shield his face. Sandy fired again as the lever clashed back into place. The man fell forward.
"Got him!" cried Sandy exultantly. "Centred him twice, Tom!"
"I reckon you did. That's one out of it." He fired again without result. Sandy shot three times rapidly, and swore at the light.