"Dad!" called out Tip, in an agony of grief.
He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight as it slowly sagged.
"Got me—son!" the cattleman jerked out.
Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.
"I'm done—all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf. I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle, if yuh ever get out of here alive. Yuh promise to try?" He turned glazing eyes at the Texan. "The cattle should go—to Tip's mother. She's in Dodge City."
"Believe me, sah," promised Kid Wolf earnestly, "if we evah get out of this trap alive, Tip and I will do ouah best."
The stricken man's face lighted. He grasped his son, Tip, with one hand, the Texan with the other.
"I'll pass on easier now."
Suddenly he drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet, squared his enormous shoulders, and with crimson welling from his wound, walked firmly and steadily to the door and began kicking the barricade aside.
"What are yuh doin'?" one of the defenders cried, thinking he was delirious from his hurt.