"Somebody can hang onto you so you can lean out," Buck replied. "Pete can hold you easy."
"But what'll he hold on to?"
Hopalong pointed. "See that spur up there, close to th' first ledge? He can hitch a rope around that an' hang to th' rope. I tell you it's got to be done. We can't lose no more men in this everlasting pot-shooting game. We've got to get close an' clean up!"
"Well, I ain't saying nothing different, am I?" snapped Skinny. "I'm saying it'll be hard, an' it will. Now suppose one of them fellers goes on sentry duty along this end; what then?"
"We'll solve that when we come to it," Hopalong replied. "I reckon if Red lays on this rock in th' moonlight that he can drop any sentry that stands up against th' sky at a hundred yards. We've got to try it, anyhow."
"Down!" whispered Buck, warningly. "Don't let 'em know we're here. Drop that gun, Hoppy!"
They dropped down behind the loose bowlders while the rustler passed along the edge, his face turned towards the pinnacle. Then, deciding that Johnny had not returned, he swept the chaparral with a pair of glasses. Satisfied at length that all was well he turned and disappeared over a rocky ledge ten feet from the edge of the wall.
"I could 'a dropped him easy," grumbled Hopalong, regretfully, and Skinny backed him up.
"Shore you could; but I don't want them to think we are looking at this end," Buck replied. "We'll have th' boys raise th' devil down south till dark an' keep that gang away from this end."
"I reckon they read yore mind—hear th' shooting?" Skinny queried.