“Be a long time—mebby,” mumbled Jackson, his trembling hands trying to steady the rifle. “They're all—around us. Ah, missed!” he intoned hoarsely, trying to pump the lever with unobeying hands. “I can't last—much—” the words ceased abruptly and the clatter of the rifle on the floor told the story.
Johnny stumbled over to him and dragged him aside, covering the upturned face with his own sombrero, and picked up the rifle. 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.
“An' he's worse off than we are, being alone,” commented Neal. “Hey! One of us better make a break for help—my ranch's the nearest. What d'ye say?”
“It's suicide; they'll get you before you get ten feet,” Barr replied with conviction.