The popping ceased suddenly; silence succeeded.
"They're having their bad time, too," said Ajax. "They are hitching their plugs to the fence. Hullo!"
Uncle Jake slipped on to the verandah, six-shooter in hand. Before he spoke, he spat contemptuously; then he drawled out: "Our boys say it's none o' their doggoned business; they won't interfere."
"Good," said Ajax cheerfully. "Nip back, Uncle; we can play this hand alone."
"Sure?" The old man's voice expressed doubt.
"Quite sure. Shush-h-h!"
Uncle Jake slid off the verandah, but he retired--so we discovered later--no farther than the water-butt behind it. Ajax and I went into the sitting-room. From the bed-room beyond came no sound whatever. Through the windows the pack was seen--slowly advancing.
"Come in, gentlemen," said Ajax loudly.
He stood in the doorway, an unarmed man confronting a dozen desperadoes.
"Wheer's the Chinaman--Quong?"