"Wahoo yourself!" he challenged, "who the hell are you fellers, anyway?"
"I'm Meshackatee," returned that gentleman, "and here's Mr. Hall——"
"Oh, Hall, eh?" spoke up the voice. "This is Winchester Bassett. Come down, boys, and I'll stake you to a horse."
They crept down through the shadows and met him at the creek, still smiling but without his jaunty air. A thick growth of black beard made his face look deathly pale, his clothes were hanging in shreds, and as he wrung Hall's hand he had a wild look in his eyes though he tried to conceal it with a smile.
"Well, well, Hall," he said, "I'm sure glad to see you. And you, too, Meshackatee—how are you? But say, we'd better go, because the Scarboroughs will be back and we don't want to git caught in this brush. Heard you shooting down here, and Bill and me took a chance—we winged two of 'em and captured all their horses."
"I knowed it!" exclaimed Meshackatee, "I almost knowed that that was you. They ain't many men, I'll say, that can work a Winchester that fast——"
"I was named after it," grinned Winchester. "How're you fixed for ammunition?"
"Whole pack-load!" answered Meshackatee. "Thought you boys might be short. Come on, let's go bring it down."
They caught their frightened horses and threw on the packs while Winchester turned back to join Bill; but when they arrived they found the Bassetts in a rock-pile, for much bush-whacking had got on their nerves.