Part 11 (2/2)

”Hunt up all the guns heah,” the Kid cried, ”and load 'em. If they rush us, we'll need to shoot fast!”

Several rifles were hunted up--Winchesters and two muzzle-loading Sharps .50s. There were also a powder-and-ball buffalo gun of the old pattern, and, to Kid Wolf's delight, a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

In the light of the early morning, each detail of the grim scene was brought out minutely. It was a picture Kid Wolf never forgot! Across the street that formed the No Man's Land was the saloon, wreathed in powder smoke, as guns spat sullen flame. And swinging slightly above the splintered green-shuttered doors was the dead body of Durham, neck stretched horribly, head on breast. It seemed a grotesque phantom, warning them of death to come.

The horses had been run into the back of the store itself, as a protection against flying bullets. Kid Wolf suggested that they be saddled, so that they would be ready for use if occasion demanded it.

”We might have to make a run fo' it at any time,” he warned.

The firing from the saloon went on for nearly an hour. Then there was a sudden lull.

”Look out now!” The Kid exclaimed. ”Looks like they mean to rush us!”

”We'll cure 'em o' that!” Old Beef McCay cried grimly. He picked up the sawed-off shotgun.

The Texan was right. A yell went up from the saloon, and a dozen men rushed out, firing as they came. Six others carried a heavy beam, evidently torn from the interior of the Idle Hour. It was their intention to use this as a battering-ram to smash in the door of the store.

The cry from the defenders was ”Let 'em have it!”

The terrific thunder of the shotgun and the buffalo rifle blended with the loud roar of six-guns. Hammers fell with deadly regularity. Fire blazed from every loophole and shooting s.p.a.ce.

When the smoke cleared away, Tip McCay emitted a whoop that the others echoed. The charge had been stopped, and very effectively. The big beam lay on the ground, with the writhing bodies of four men around it.

The ”scatter gun” had accounted for three of them; Kid Wolf had put the other out of business with bullets through both legs. A little to one side were two more of the outlaws, one of whom had been brought down by Tip McCay, the other by the lantern-jawed, slow-spoken plainsman known as Scotty. The others had beaten a quick retreat to the shelter of the saloon.

CHAPTER VIII

ONE GAME HOMBRE

Hardy's gang did not attempt another rush. They had learned their lesson. Keeping under cover, they continued firing steadily, however, and their bullets began to do damage. Every crack and c.h.i.n.k was a target.

In the afternoon, more riders arrived to swell the Hardy faction. Some were ugly, half-clothed Indians, armed with rusty guns and bows and arrows. The odds were steadily increasing.

As there was ample food and water in the storehouse to last for several days, the besieged had no worries on that score. McCay knew, though, and Kid Wolf realized, that nightfall would bring trouble. Hardy was stung now by the loss of several men, and he would not do things by halves. He would show no mercy.

The first casualty took place in midafternoon. Anderson, in the act of aiming his revolver through a loophole, was. .h.i.t between the eyes by a bullet and instantly killed. The number of men defending the store was now cut down to seven.

Toward nightfall, tragedy overtook them, full force. Old Beef McCay was in the act of reloading a gun when a treacherous bullet zipped spitefully through an opening between two logs and caught him low in the chest. The impact sent him staggering against the wall, his round, moonlike face white and drawn.

”Dad!” called out Tip, in an agony of grief.

He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight as it slowly sagged.

”Got me--son!” the cattleman jerked out.

Quickly the Texan tore away his s.h.i.+rt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.

<script>