“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. He slid over the edge and Pete grabbed him.
“Next,” suggested Pete, expectantly.
Tim tossed his Colt over the edge. “Here's another,” he swore, following the weapon. He was grabbed and bound in a trice.
“When may we expect you, Mr. Duke?” asked Johnny, looking up.
“Presently, friend, presently. I want to—wow!” he finished, and lost no time in his descent, which was meteoric. “That feller'll kill somebody if he ain't careful!” he complained as Pete tied his hands behind his back.
“You wait till daylight an' see,” cheerily replied Pete as the three were led off to join their friends in the corral.
There was no further action until the sun arose and then Hopalong hailed the house and demanded a parley, and soon he and Boggs met midway between the shack and the line.
“What d'you want?” asked Boggs, sullenly.