"It was put there durin' the night some time, probably by one o' Hardy's sneakin' half-breeds, because none o' our sentries saw any one the whole night through," Tip said.
The note was roughly penciled on a sheet of yellow paper, and the message it carried was significant:
Ef yu will all walk out of their without yore guns we promiss no harm will com to yu. Ef yuh dont, we will get yu to the last man. We alreddy got yore cattel. This offer dont go fer Kid Wolf. We no hes their and we aim to kill him!
"They don't like me." The Texan laughed. "Well, I don't want 'em to.
What do yo' intend to do, sah?"
The elder McCay's face was very red. His fingers, as he tore the insolent letter to bits, were trembling with anger.
"I say let 'em hop to it!" he jerked out. "I ain't givin' in to anybody!"
The others cheered. And it was a fighting group of men who gathered for a conference as to the defense of the store. It was agreed that their position was a serious one, outnumbered as they were.
Just how serious, they soon found out, for at the rising of the sun—as if it had been a signal—a burst of gunfire blazed out from the saloon across the street. Splinters flew from the logs as bullets thudded into them. Several whined through the two windows and crashed into the wall.
Kid Wolf took an active part in quickly getting ready for a stand. The windows and the doors were heavily barricaded, at his suggestion. Sacks of flour, salt, and other supplies were piled over the openings, as these were best for stopping lead. Mattresses were stuffed behind the barricade for further protection, and just enough space was left clear to allow a gun to be aimed through.
The volley from the Idle Hour had injured no one. The firing continued more or less steadily, however, and an occasional slug ripped its way between the logs. Jack Hardy's gang were firing at the chinks.