And like a resistless torrent the band rushed forward.
Mustang Max, Barry Brown, Hale, Jared Dwight, Pomp, Barney, and a lot more of the toughest knots, led the wild and irresistible assault.
Like a fierce mountain torrent they swept across the open space, keeping the wagons between them and the open doorway, and thus really advancing from behind a barricade.
Onward, with a wild, exultant, Western cheer.
Around the wagons they dashed, and fairly into the arms of the counterfeiters.
These latter were clustered in the hallway to the number of thirty odd, and they all looked desperate.
“Surrender or be chawed up,” yelled Barry Brown.
“Don’t give up, ye divils ye,” shouted Barney Shea, creating headaches without number with his blackthorn stick; “foight on like blazes, me beauties, and ye may bate the very insides out of us. Don’t yez give up.”
Which advice was given so freely because he didn’t want such an “illegant row” to end in a hurry.
Pomp had a picnic all to himself, for he sat down in a big chair that stood in the hallway, and contented himself with picking off those of the enemy who were getting the best of any of his friends, and in this particular line the black dead-shot was not to be excelled.