Somethin’ whistled ’twixt me and the sheriff–ping-ng-ng! It was lead, all right!
And just then, whilst he was pullin’ t’ right and left, scatterin’ quick, but shootin’ off blanks (we was so excited), that strawberry roan of Sparks’s come past us like a streak of lightnin’. And on her, with his dicer gone, no glasses, a ca’tridge-belt ’round his neck, and a pistol in one hand, was Boston!
“Hi, you fool,” yells the sheriff, “You’ll git killed!”
(Tire Pedro out and then draw his fire was the best plan, y’ savvy.)
Boston didn’t answer–kept right on.
But the run was up. Pedro ’d reached that ole dobe house that Clay Peters lived in oncet, pulled the door open, and makin’ Carlota lay flat on her saddle (she was tied on!) druv in her hoss. Then, he begun t’ lead in hisn–when Boston brung up his hand and let her go–bang.
Say! that greaser got a surprise. He give a yell, and drawed back, lettin’ go his hoss. Then, he shut the door to, and we seen his weasel face at the winda.
Boston’s gun come up again.
“Look out,” I hollered. “You’ll hurt the gal.”
He didn’t shoot then, but just kept goin’. Pedro fired and missed. Next minute, Boston was outen range on the side of the house where they wasn’t no winda, and offen his hoss; and the cholo was poppin’ at us as we come on, and yellin’ like he was luny.