Confusion was rife among the defenders and the noise of the shouts and firing made one jumble of sound. Bullets whistled along the fissures in the dim light and hummed and whizzed as they ricochetted from wall to wall. As yet the attacking force had made no reply, being too busily occupied in getting close to lose time in wasting lead at that range, and being only five against an unknown number protected by a stone hut and who knew every bowlder, crevice, and other points of vantage.
Hopalong slid over a bowlder which choked his particular and personal fissure and saw Jim Meeker sliding down the wall in front of it. And as Meeker picked himself up Skinny Thompson slid down the other wall.
"Well, I'm hanged!" grunted Hopalong in astonishment.
"Same here," retorted Skinny. "What you doing 'way over here?"
"Thought you was going to lead th' other end of th' line!" rejoined Hopalong.
"This is it—yo're off yore range."
"Well, I reckon not!" Hopalong responded, indignantly.
"An' say, Meeker, how'd you get over here so quick?" Skinny asked, turning to the other. "You was down below when I saw you last."
"Me? Why, I just follered my nose, that's all," Meeker replied, surprised.
"You've got a blamed crooked nose, then," Skinny snorted, and turned to Hopalong. "Why don't you untangle yoreself an' go where you belong, you carrot-headed blunderer!"