“There’s our bay horse,” says I, pointing at the tie-rack.
Then a bullet dusted the top of the lumber pile and sent some splinters into my face.
“Keep low,” advises Hashknife. “They’re a-shooting from the windows. We’ve got to be careful that we don’t hit Buddy.”
Then Willer Crick starts in to make a lead mine out of our lumber pile, but them old boards sure do stop bullets. One feller gets cocky and looks out of the door. I lifts his hat and I think a part of his scalp, cause he yelps like a bee had stung him.
“Don’t shoot until you’re sure,” grins Hashknife. “We can’t take any chances of hittin’ our little jigger.”
“Think a lot of that kid, don’t yuh,” says I.
“’Thout a doubt in the world, Sleepy.”
“It ain’t noways reasonable for you to adopt him,” says I.
Hashknife recovers his hat, with a hole in the crown, and nudges in closer to the lumber pile, while Willer Crick sifted lead across the street.