"Hang it! I tell you I—" Hopalong began, and then ducked quickly. "Lord, but somebody's got us mapped out good!"
"Well, some of our fellers have started up—hear 'em over there?" exclaimed Skinny as firing broke out on the east. "Them's Colts, all right. Mebby it's plumb lucky for us it ain't so blamed light, after all; we'll have time to pick our places before they can see us real good."
"Pick our places!" snorted Hopalong. "Get tangled up, you mean!" he added.
"Hullo! What you doing, fellers?" asked a pained and surprised voice above them. "Why ain't you in it?"
"For th' love of heaven—it's Frenchy!" cried Hopalong. "Skinny, I reckon them Colts you heard belonged to th' rustlers. We're all here but a couple."
"Didn't I leave you over east about five minutes ago, Frenchy?" demanded Skinny, his mouth almost refusing to shut.
"Shore. I'm east—what's eating at you?" asked Frenchy.
"Come on—get out of this!" ordered Hopalong, scrambling ahead. "You foller me an' you'll be all right."
"We'll be back to th' ropes if we foller you," growled Skinny. "Of all th' locoed layouts I ever run up against this here mesa top takes th' prize," he finished in disgust.
Bullets whined and droned above them and frequently hummed down the fissure to search them out, the high, falsetto whine changing quickly to an angry spang! as they struck the wall a slanting blow. They seemed to spring away again with renewed strength as they sang the loud, whirring hum of the ricochette, not the almost musical, sad note of the uninterrupted bullet, but venomous, assertive, insistent. The shots could be distinguished now, for on one side were the sharp cracks of rifles; on the other a different note, the roar of Colts.