"Shore I will! We can lick them thieves, Doc," Billy expounded without much interest. "Yessir," he added.
"You make me tired," Doc retorted. "You talking about being careful when you stand up in plain sight of them fellers like you just did."
"Yes, I know. I was mad, an' sort of forgot about 'em being able to shoot at me—but what happened out there, anyhow?"
Doc craned his neck. "There's Cassidy now, in that gully—Meeker's just joined him. Good men, both of 'em."
"You bet," replied Billy, satisfied. "Yessir, we can lick 'em—we've got to."
On the west side of the mesa, back in the chaparral and out of sight of the rustlers, Pie Willis lay face down in the sand, quiet. Near him lay Frenchy McAllister, firing at intervals, aflame with anger and a desire to kill. Opposite him on the mesa, a scant three hundred yards away, two rustlers gloated and fired, eager to kill the other puncher, who shot so well.
"That other feller knows his business, Elder," remarked Nevada as a slug ricochetted past his head. "Wonder who he is."
"Wonder where he is," growled Elder, firing at a new place. "He's been shifting a lot. Anyhow, we got one. There's so much smoke down there I can't seem to place him. Mebby—" he fell back, limp, his rifle clattering down a hundred feet of rock.
Nevada looked at him closely and then drew back to a more secure position. "We're even, stranger, but we ain't quits, by a good deal!" He swore. Zing-ing-ing! "Oh, you know I moved, do you!" he gritted. "Well, how's that!" Spat! a new, bright leaden splotch showed on the rock above his head and hot lead stung his neck and face as the bullet spattered. "I'll get you yet, you coyote!" he muttered, changing his position again. "Ah, h—l!" he sobbed and dropped his rifle to grasp his right elbow, shattered by a Winchester .45. Pain shot through every fibre of his body and weakened him so he could not crawl for shelter or assistance. He swayed, lost his balance and swayed further, and as his side showed beyond the edge of his rocky rampart he quivered and sank back, helpless, pain-racked, and bleeding to death from two desperate wounds.
"We was—tricked—up here!" he moaned. "That must—be Red—Connors out there. Ah!" Spat! Chug! Spat! But Nevada did not hear them now.