Nomad, who had been watching proceedings with cat-like vigilance, threw open the door and the scout faded inside the cabin. When the wrathful cowboys pulled themselves together, only the blank expanse of the door faced them. Yelling furiously, they began slamming bullets into the stout oak barrier.
Those behind heard the shooting and likewise opened a fusillade.
“All we can do now,” said Nate Dunbar, his face white and set, “is to give them as good as they send—or better.”
“Wait!” interposed the scout, “we’re not in the last ditch yet.”
“What d’ye want ter wait fer, Buffler?” spoke up old Nomad. “All them thar ijuts aire in plain sight. We kin pick ’em off in one, two, three style.”
“We’re not here to pick anybody off, Nick,” said the scout. “We’re here to save Nate Dunbar, and not to make this matter any worse than it is. Let them waste their ammunition on the walls of the cabin, if they want to. It’s not hurting us, and it’s allowing some of their steam to escape. Maybe they won’t be under such high pressure after they shoot a while.”
For a minute or two the bullets continued to thump against the cabin walls. After that there came an interval of silence while the cowboys moved farther back into the timber. From the loopholes they could be seen preparing torches.
“They’re going to fire the house!” gasped Perry.
“Them fellers’ll do anythin’,” averred Sim Pierce. “They’re crazy mad. When they come ter think this over termorrer, they’ll wonder how the blazes they ever let their senses run away from ’em in this way. It’s a rough bizness, an’ no mistake.”
“They’ll not fire the house,” said Buffalo Bill. “In order to do that, they’ll have to come within range of our guns. They have at least sense enough to understand that we can pick them off as fast as they come at us with their torches.”