In a thicket two hundred yards south of the mesa Red Connors worked the lever of his rifle, a frown on his face. "I got him, all right. Do you know who he is?"
"No; but I've seen him in Eagle," replied Hopalong, lowering the glasses. "What's worrying me is water—my throat's drying awful."
"You shouldn't 'a forgot it," chided Red. "Now we've got to go without it all day."
Hopalong ducked and swore as he felt of his bleeding face. "Purty close, that!"
"Mind what yo're doing!" replied Red. "Get off my hand."
"This scrap is shore slow," Hopalong growled. "Here we've been doing this for a whole week, all of us shot up, an' only got two of them fellers."
"Well, yo're right; but there ain't a man up there that ain't got a few bullet holes in him," Red replied. "But it is slow, that's shore."
"I've got to get a drink, an' that's all about it," Hopalong asserted. "I can crawl in that gully most of th' way, an' then trust a side-hopping dash. Anyhow, I'm tired of this place. Johnny's got th' place for me."
"You better stay here till it's dark, you fool."
"Aw, stay nothing—so long," and Hopalong, rifle in hand, crawled towards the gully. Red watched the mesa intently, hoping to be able to stop some of the firing his rash friend was sure to call forth.