"Mebby they ain't acting at all," replied his companion. "Then that's th' way you got that graze, eh?" pointing to a bloody furrow on Mr. Connor's cheek. "Looks like th' trail of a woman's fingernail, just th' same."

"Well, for God's sake, are you going to sit here like a wart on a dead dog an' wait for 'em?" demanded Red, with a rising inflection.

"How many?"

"Two-an' I won't tell you again!" snapped the owner of the furrowed cheek. "Th' others are 'way behind now-but we're standing still!”

"Why didn't you say there was others!" retorted Hopalong. "Naturally I didn't see no use of getting all het up just because two sprouted papooses feel like crowding us; it wasn't none of our funeral, was it?” and the indignant Mr. Cassidy quickly dismounted and hid his horse in a nearby chaparral and returned at a run.

"Red, gimme yore Winchester an' then hustle on for a ways, have an accident, fall off yore cayuse an' act scairt. It's that trick Buck told us about. We'll see if two infant feather-dusters can lick th' Bar-20. Get a-going!"

They traded rifles and Red hastily departed as bidden, his face gradually breaking into an enthusiastic grin as he ruminated upon the plan. Hopalong ran forward for a short distance and slid down the steep bank of a narrow arroyo and waited, the repeater thrust out between the dense fringe of grass and shrubs which bordered the edge. When settled to his complete satisfaction and certain that he was effectively screened from the sight of any one in front of him he arose on his toes and looked around for his companion, and laughed. Mr. Connors was apparently bending dejectedly over his prostrate horse, but in reality was swearing at the ignorant quadruped because it strove to get its master's foot off its head so it could arise. The man in the arroyo turned again to face the threatened danger and soon saw two Indians burst into view over the crest of the hills and gallop toward him.

"Pair of budding warriors, an' awful important. Somebody must a told them they had brains," he muttered. "Wonder when they jumped th' reservation?"

with his prostrate horse and taking it for granted that he was not stopping for pleasure, let out a yell and dashed ahead at greater speed, at the same time separating so as to encircle him and attack him front and rear at the same time.

But

This maneuver was entirely unexpected and clashed with Mr. Cassidy's cherished plans, so two irate punchers swore heartily at their stupidity in not counting on it. Of course everybody that knew anything knew that they would do just such a thing, and that made it all the more bitter. Red, seeing that the remedy must lay with him, astonished the exultant savages by straddling his disgruntled horse as it scrambled to its feet and by galloping away from them, bearing slightly to the South because he wished to lure his pursuers to ride closer to his anxious friend.

This action was a success, for the yelling warriors, slowing perceptibly because of their natural astonishment at the resurrection and speed of an animal regarded as dead, spurred on again, drawing closer together, and along the chord of the arc made by Mr. Connors' trail. Evidently the fool white man had radical and startling ideas about the way to rest a horse when hard pressed, which pleased them, since he had lost much time.

Hopalong, the light of fighting in his eyes, watched them sweep nearer and nearer and then two shots rang out in quick succession and a cloud of pungent smoke arose lazily from the ground as the warriors fell from their mounts not sixty yards from the marksman.

Mr. Connor's rifle spat fire once to make assurance doubly sure and he hastily rejoined his friend as that person was climbing out of the arroyo.

"Huh! They must 'a' been halfbreeds!" snorted Red in disgust, watching his friend shed sand from his clothes. "I allus opined 'Paches was too slick to bite on a game like that."

"They are purty 'lusive animals, 'Paches; but there are exceptions," replied Hopalong. "Them two ain't 'Paches—they're th' exceptions. But it's a good game, just th' same didn't Buck an' Skinny get two that way?"

paint-shops will be here purty soon. An' you better gimme back my gun, too.”

"Take yore old gun-who wants th' blamed thing, anyhow?" replied Hopalong, throwing the weapon at his friend, as he ran to get his horse. When he returned he grinned pleasantly: "Why, we'll go like we was greased for calamity, that's what we'll do. Did you reckon we was going to stay here like a pair of fools?"

"Didn't know what you'd do, remembering how you acted when I met you," retorted Red. "But I knowed what we ought to do."

"How many's headed this way?"

"You've got me; but there's a dozen, anyhow," Red replied. "You see, th' three what chased me were out scouting ahead of th' main gang, an' I didn't have no time to take a census."

"Well, we better hit th' home trailwind up that four-laigged excuse an' take my dust," Hopalong responded, leading the way. "If we can get home there'll be a lot of disgusted braves hitting th' high spots on th' back trail trying to find a way out. Buck an' th' rest will be a whole lot pleased, too. We can muster thirty men if we gets to Buckskin, an' in two hours; an' that's twenty more 'n we'll need."

"Well, we can get as far as Power's old ranch house, an' that's shore," replied Red, thoughtfully.

"Yas?" exploded his companion. "That old sieve of a shack ain't good enough for me to die in. It's as full of holes as a stiffhat in a melee. Yo're on th' wrong trail."

Mr. Cassidy objected, not because he believed Power's old ranch house to be unworthy of consideration as a place of refuge and defense, but for the reason that he wanted to get to Buckskin and let his friends in on the treat. Then he could lead the force against the enemy and battle on even terms. He intensely disliked defensive fighting, because it put him in a relatively subordinate position and thereby hurt his pride.

"Let me tell you right now that it's a whole lot better 'n thin air, with a hard working circle around us," retorted Mr. Connors. "But if you don't like that, why mebby we can make Wallace's, or th' Cross-O-Cross if we don't get turned out of our course."

"We don't head for no Cross-O-Cross or

Wallace's," rejoined his companion with emphasis, "an' we won't waste no time in Power's shack, neither; we'll push right through for Buckskin. Let them fellers find their own hunting our outfit comes first. Besides, that 'd mean a detour in a country fine for ambushes."

"Have it yore own way, then," snapped Red. "You allus was a hard-headed mule, anyhow."

Some time after the two punchers quitted the scene of their trap, several Apaches loped up, read the story of the tragedy at a glance and galloped on in pursuit. They had left the reservation a fortnight before under the able leadership of that veteran of many war-trails-Black Bear. Instead of stealing horses and murdering isolated whites as they had expected they met with repulses and heavy losses and were now without the guiding mind of their leader. They had fled from one defeat to another and had barely eluded the cavalry which pursued them. Now there were two more of their dwindling force dead, and another had been found but an hour before. Rage and ferocity seethed madly in each savage heart and they were determined to get the puncher, and that other man whose trail joined that of the first. They would place at least one victory against the list of their repulses, and at any cost. Whips rose and fell and the war-party shot forward in a compact group, with two scouts thrown ahead to feel the way.

The two punchers rode on rejoicing, for there were three less Apaches loose in the Southwest for the inhabitants to swear about, and with a most excellent chance of more to follow. Mr. Cassidy voiced his elation and then rubbed his empty and clamoring stomach when a bullet hummed past his head, so unexpectedly as to cause him to duck instinctively and glance. apologetically at his red-haired friend; and both spurred their mounts to greater speed. Then Mr. Connors grabbed at his sombrero and grew petulant and loquacious:

"Them was lucky shots, Hoppy, but that won't help us none if we stop any of 'em. Gimme yore Sharps," he said, taking his companion's heavy rifle and turning in the saddle. "An even thousand if it's a yard-well, here's luck," aiming and firing.

"Missed by a mile," reproved Hopalong,

who would have been stunned by such a thing as a hit under the circumstances. "Yes! Missed th' coyote I shot at, but I got th' cayuse of his off pardner; see it?"

"Talk about luck!"

"That's all right-it's slowed 'em up a bit, an' that's about all I wanted. Gimme another cartridge."

"I will not-no use of wasting lead. We'll need it all before we get out of this. You can't do nothing without stopping to aim-an' that takes time."

"Then I'll stop. Th' blazes with th' time! Gimme another, d'ye hear?"

Mr. Cassidy heard, complied and stopped beside his companion, who was very intent upon the matter at hand. He lowered the rifle and peered through the smoke at the confusion he had caused by dropping the nearest warrior. He was said to be the best rifle shot in the Southwest, which meant a great deal, but since the Sharps shot a .50-120-550 special cartridge and was capable of being sighted up to eighteen hundred yards he did not regard the hit as being worthy of special mention. Not so his friend, who grinned joyously and exalted:

"Yo're a shore wonder with that gun, Red. Why don't you lose that repeater an' get a gun like mine? Lord, if I could use a rifle like you I wouldn't have that gun of your'n for a gift."

The merits of their respective rifles had always been a bone of contention between them, and one well chewed, at that. Red refused to discuss the matter since he was very much satisfied with his .45-70 Winchester, even if it's range was not as great as that of his friend's single shotgun; and he was a good judge of weapons.

"You did stop 'em a little," asserted Mr. Cassidy some time later as he looked back. "You stopped 'em coming straight, but they're spreading out to work up around us. Now if we had good cayuses instead of these wooden wonders we could run away from 'em dead easy, draw their bestmounted men to th' front an' then close with 'em. Good thing their cayuses are purty well tired out, for as it is we've got to make a stand purty soon. Gee! They don't like you, Red; they're calling you names in th' sign language. Look at 'em cuss you!"

"How much water you got?" inquired his friend with anxiety.

"Canteen plumb full. How're you fixed"

"I got th' same, less one drink. That gives us enough for a couple of days with some to spare, if we're careful," Mr. Connors replied. New Mexico canteens are built on generous lines and are therefore called "life-preservers.'

"Look at that glory-hunter go!" exclaimed Red, watching a brave who was riding half a mile to their right and rapidly coming abreast of them.

"Here! Stop him!" suggested Hopalong, holding out his Sharps. "We can't let him get ahead an' lay for us."

"My gun's good, an' better for me, at this distance; but I can't hit a jack-rabbit going over rough country,” replied his companion, standing up in his stirrups and firing.

"Never touched him, but he's edging off a-plenty. See him cuss you. What's he calling you, anyhow?"

"Ah, shut up! How th' devil do I know? I don't talk with my arms!" "Are you superstitious, Red?" "NO! Shut up!"

"Well, I am. See that feller on our left? If he gets in front of us it's a sign that somebody's going to get hurt."

Just then they galloped over a rise and half a mile ahead of them was an adobe building in a poor state of preservation. It was Power's old ranch house and there was no doubt about the holes.

II

Mr. Cassidy dismounted and viewed the building with open disgust, walking around it to see what held it up, and when he realized that it was self-supporting, his astonishment was profound. For the sake of argument he called to his companion and urged that they be satisfied with what defense they could extemporize in the open. Mr. Connors hotly and hastily dissented and led the horses into the building, the question being arbitrated with much feeling. Finally Hopalong thought that his friend was a chump, and said so, whereat Red said unpleasant things about his friend's pedigree, attributes and place of eternal abode. The remarks were getting

to be quite personal in tenor when a sharp humming sounded in the air between them and died out in the distance, a flat report coming to their ears a few seconds later. They lost no time in getting under cover of the building, where the discussion was renewed as they prepared for business. Red grunted his approval, for now he was out of the blazing sun; but his companion, shutting the door and propping it, grumbled and finally gave rein to his rancor by sneering at the Winchester.

"It gets me that after all I have said against that gun that you will tote it around with you an' force yoreself into a suicide's grave," quoth Mr. Cassidy with exuberant pugnacity. "I ain't objecting to th' suicide part of it, but it ain't nowise fair to drag me onto th' ragged edge of everlasting eternity with you. You'll waste all of yore cartridges an' then come snooping around to borrow my gun. Why don't you lose th' d-d thing?"

"What I pack ain't none of yore business, which same I'll uphold," retorted Mr. Connors, at last able to make his remarks heard. "You get over on yore own side an' use yore Colt's. I've wondered some how an' where you ever got th' sense to use a Colt-I wouldn't be a heap surprised to see you tote a pearl-handled .22. You 'tend to yore graveyard aspirants an' lemme do th' same with mine."

"Th' Lord knows I've stood a lot from you because you can't help being foolish, but it stops right here an' now, or you won't get no 'Paches," snorted Hopalong, peering through a hole in the wall. The more they squabbled the better they liked it and controversies were so common that they were merely a habit; and they served to take the grimness out of desperate situations.

"You can't lick one side of me," averred Red. "You never stopped anybody that was anything," he jeered as he fired from the window. It was a well-known fact that his companion had been in more shooting-bees than any two men of their outfit, and also that a better revolver shot never pulled a trigger. "You couldn't hit th' bottom of th' Grand Cañon if you leaned over th' edge."

"You could if you leaned too far, you half-breed. But how about th' Jonses, Tarantula Charley an' Slim Travennes?"

"Huh! You couldn't 'a' got any of 'em if they had been sober," and Mr. Connors shook so with mirth that the Indian at whom he fired got away with a whole skin and derided the marksman. "That 'Pache reckons it was you shooting at him, I missed him so much. Now shut up-I want to get some so we can go home."

Hopalong caught sight of an Apache who moved through a chaparral which lay about nine hundred yards away. He raised his rifle to his shoulder as the Indian fired and the bullet, striking the edge of the hole through which Mr. Cassidy looked, kicked up a handful of dust, some of which lodged in that puncher's eyes.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" yelled the unfortunate, dancing blindly about the room in rage and pain and dropping his rifle.

His companion wheeled instantly and ran to him: "Are you plugged bad, Hoppy?" he cried anxiously.

'No, I ain't plugged bad! I ain't plugged at all!" blazed the injured man, kicking enthusiastically at his solicitous friend. "Get me some water, you jackass, an' quick! My eyes are full of dirt!"

Red, avoiding another kick, hastily complied and left Mr. Cassidy to wash out the dust while he returned to his post.

Hopalong, ridding his eyes of most of the dust, went back to the hole in the wall and looked out: "Hey, Red. Come over here an' spill that brave's conceit. I can't get him now, an' it's a nice shot, too. Blamed fool, doing a mean thing like that!"

Mr. Connors obeyed the summons and peered out cautiously: "I can't see him, nohow; where is th' coyote?"

"Over there in that little chaparralsee him now?" impatiently replied the man with the inflamed eyes. "There! See him moving?"

“Yep, I see him, all right. You watch," was the reply. "He's just over nine hundred-where's yore Sharps?" He took the weapon, glanced at the Buffington sight, which was set right, and aimed carefully.

Hopalong blinked through another hole as his friend fired and saw the Indian flop down and crawl aimlessly about on allfours. "What's he doing now?"

"Playing marbles, an' here goes for his agate," replied the man with the Sharps, firing again. "There-Gee!" he exclaimed.