"Y'u can't come too quick, seh. We're here a-shootin', and don't
y'u forget it," was McWilliams's prompt answer.

The sinister face of the man from the Shoshones darkened. "Y'u've
signed your own death warrants," he let out through set teeth,
and at the word swung on his heel.

"The ball's about to open. Pardners for a waltz. Have a
dust-cutter, Mac, before she grows warm."

The puncher handed over his flask, and the other held it before
his eye and appraised the contents in approved fashion. " Don't
mind if I do. Here's how!"

"How!" echoed Missou, in turn, and tipped up the bottle till the
liquor gurgled down his baked throat.

"He's fanning out his men so as to, get us both at the front and
back door. Lucky there ain't but four of them."

"I guess we better lie back to back," proposed Missou. "If our
luck's good I reckon they're going to have a gay time rushing
this fort."

A few desultory shots had already been dropped among the
cottonwoods, and returned by the defendants when Missou let out a
yell of triumph.

"Glory Hallelujah! Here comes the boys splittin' down the road
hell-for-leather. That lopsided, ring-tailed snorter of a