store, immediately across the street from the barroom. A buffalo gun
roared down by the plaza and several Sharps cracked a protest from
different points. The town had awakened and the shots were dropping
steadily.

Strange noises filled the air. They grew in tone and volume and then
dwindled away to nothing. The hum of the buffalo gun and the sobbing
pi-in-in-ing of the Winchesters were liberally mixed with the sharp
whines of the revolvers.

There were no windows in the hotel now. Raw furrows in the bleached
wood showed yellow, and splinters mysteriously sprang from the
casings. The panels of the door were producing cracks and the cheap
door handle flew many ways at once. An empty whisky keg on the stoop
boomed out mournfully at intervals and finally rolled down the steps
with a rumbling protest. Wisps of smoke slowly climbed up the walls
and seemed to be waving defiance to the curling wisps in the open.


Pete raised his shoulder to refill the magazine of his smoking rifle
and dropped the cartridges all over his lap. He looked sheepishly at
Skinny and began to load with his other hand.

"Yore plum loco, yu are. Don't yu reckon they kin hit a blue shirt
at two hundred?" Skinny cynically inquired. "Got one that time," he
announced a second later.

"I wonder who's got th' buffalo," grunted Pete. "Mus' be Cowan," he
replied to his own question and settled himself to use his left hand.