He did not descend from his wagon-seat, but with cool nerve sat up high and picked off his foes at pleasure.
Spat, spat, ping! the bullets struck against his breast, but he laughed in derision.
Only his eyes were visible through the close-laced bars of his visor.
With a pistol in either hand he coolly sat there, keeping an eye upon his friends, and sending in a helping shot whenever he thought any of them were in need of it.
Barney Shea sprang into the midst of his enemies with a wild Irish yell, grasping his heavy black-thorn stick, and twirling it with a practiced hand.
“Hoora, boys,” he shouted; “gintlemin, it’s plased I am to mate yez all this foine summer’s avening. There’s me compliments on top o’ yez head, ye spalpeen, an’ don’t yez be afther saying Barney Shea ever forgot his manners whin he thraveled through a strange counthry. It’s a rale dacint lookin’ mon ye are, and sure it’s not meself that would think o’ passin’ ye by so aisely, so take another wan in token o’ my estame.”
And then the robber to whom he paid particular attention tumbled from his saddle with a broken head, very much knocked out of tune by Barney’s token of esteem.
Jared Dwight was not fighting reds now, but he went to work in a very systematic manner with his heavy rifle.
He took the end of the barrel firmly in his hands, and with the iron-bound butt revolving rapidly around his head, he sailed in.
Men who came within the sweep of the reversed arm, were knocked over like tenpins, and by their prancing and shying it seemed that the horses didn’t like it very well.