McCay, fighting against the weakness that threatened to overcome him, turned with a smile, grim and terrible.
"I'm goin' out there," he said, "to take some of those devils—with me!"
In vain Kid Wolf and Tip attempted to restrain him. The old man waved them back.
"I'm done for, anyway," he said. "I haven't got ten minutes to live. What if they do fill me with lead? I'll get one or two while they're doin' it!"
He seemed stronger now than ever. Sheer will power was keeping him on his feet. Seizing two revolvers, one in each big fist, he wabbled through the door.
With horror-widened eyes, they watched his reeling progress. He faltered to the hitch rack with bullets humming all around him. He clung to it for a moment, then went on, stalking toward the Idle Hour like grim vengeance! His guns sputtered red fire and bursts of black powder smoke. Hit time after time—they could see the dust fly from his clothing as he staggered along under the dreadful impacts—he kept going. It was glorious, terrible!
Tip hid his eyes, with a despairing cry. Kid Wolf watched, his face white under his sunburn.
Up to the very door of the Hardy refuge, the old man walked, his guns hammering claps of thunder. Hit several times in the body, he sprawled once and fell, but was on his feet again before the smoke drifted away. He plunged through the door, and The Kid saw two men drop under his blazing guns. Then McCay, too, fell—for the last time.
"Yo' dad was one game hombre, Tip," murmured the Texan, putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's hope that when ouah turn comes, we can go as bravely."
He had never seen such an exhibition of undaunted courage. Although the tragedy had clutched at his heart, the spectacle had thrilled him, too. He knew that if he should escape, he would do his best to make good his promise to Old Beef McCay!