"All right, Charlie," was the reply, and the young deadshot fired a shot that hit the ground near the feet of the spokesman of the trio.
"Hold on!" the cowboy shouted. "It's all right, Young Wild West. I know who yer are now. I'll 'pologize. Don't shoot no more!"
Crack!
Again the boy fired, and then all three, knowing what was wanted of them, began to dance for all they were worth.
Crack—crack!
Cheyenne Charlie now took a hand in the game, and, while the girls and Jim Dart laughed merrily, the three cowboys did the "tenderfoot dance" in fine shape.
Both Wild and the scout fired three or four shots apiece, and some of them took chips off the high heels of the boots the cowboys wore.
"I reckon that will be about all," said our hero, as he ejected the shells from his revolver and then coolly proceeded to reload the chambers. "You galoots will know better the next time. I don't much like the looks of you, but I want to tell you that if you happen to take a notion to get square with us for what has happened you'll get the worst of it. I hope you understand what I say."
The rascals—for they were undoubtedly such—did not stop to make a reply, but darted into the saloon.
The Chinaman gave a parting laugh, and then, turning to the other Celestial, observed: