The distance was great enough to give the charge of buckshot a chance to spread to a maximum degree, and none of the leaden pellets struck the mark. But just the same the three shadowy figures became prone objects.
Again came the long spurt of orange flame from the door of the express car, and more buckshot whined through the weeds.
“What kinda —— whisky was that yuh bought?” queried the voice of Johnny Grant from among the weeds.
“Well, if you think I’m goin’ t’ let any train crew heave buckshot at me, yo’re crazy,” declared Eskimo Swensen, and proceeded to shoot at the glow from the express car door.
“H’rah f’r us!” whooped Oyster, and unlimbered two shots from his six-shooter. His aim was a bit uncertain and it is doubtful if either bullet even hit the car.
Wham! Skee-e-e-e-e! Another handful of buckshot mowed the grass. Three six-shooters blazed back at the flash of the shotgun, and their owners shifted locations as fast as possible, because those last buckshot came too close for comfort.
Then came a lull. In fact the shooting ceased entirely. The three men in the grass saw the light go out in the car. There was no noise, except the panting of the engine, its headlight cutting a pathway of silver across the Arizona hills. Minute after minute passed. It was too dark to see an object against the car or engine, and the three men in the grass did not see the engineer and fireman crawl along to the engine and sneak into the cab.
“Where’s that —— murderer with the riot-gun?” queried Eskimo Swensen. He was anxious to continue the battle.
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Johnny. “Somebody comin’.”
They could see the vague bulk of a man coming along the track. Then it passed the end of the express car, blending in with it. The three cowboys could hear the crunch of gravel, as the newcomer walked along the car, and they heard him climb inside. Came the tiny glow of a match, the snappy bark of a dog. A few moments later came the thud of two bodies hitting the gravel.