The man bending over Pete whirled, shooting from the hip at the window. Tad’s shot caught the outlaw in the shoulder, spinning him about.
“Watch the jasper on the couch, Tad!” yelled Shorty, rolling across the floor in twisting flops and striking the legs of Black Jack, who was groping for the table where the lamp stood. Cursing in a monotone, his eyes blinded and hot with pain, the half breed fell across Shorty’s form.
Tad, gun in hand, sprang through the doorway. Black Jack shot desperately at the least sound, and Tad felt the air of a passing bullet. Tad leaped forward, the high heel of his boot crunching the breed’s gun hand into the dirt. The small bones cracked sickeningly and Black Jack cursed as he groped for the gun with his left hand.
A streak of fire from the bunk. Slim’s bullet tore through the crown of Tad’s hat. Tad’s gun roared, tearing the .45 from Slim’s hand.
“Both wings busted,” snarled Slim, and followed the statement by a string of curses.
The other man was in a heap, whining and begging.
“Kill the yaller coyote,” yelled Slim. “Kill the howling ——! Fight, you —— polecat!”
Tad was on top of Black Jack now, his long arms swinging like flails as the breed fought like a trapped cougar. A terrific swing and the breed went limp.
The powder smoke was stifling. Every man’s ears rang from the roar of the big calibered six-shooters. Slim was shrieking curses and begging some one to kill the wounded outlaw who put up so tame a fight.
Tad cut Shorty’s ropes first.