delighted at the notice taken of his artistic efforts, shot several
times from a crack on his right. "This yer's shore gittin' like home,"
he gravely remarked to the splinter that whizzed past his head. He
shot again at the door and it sagged outward, accompanied by the thud
of a falling body. "Pies like mother used to make," he announced to
the loft as he slipped the magazine full of .45-70'S. "An' pills like
popper used to take," he continued when he had lowered the level of
the water in his flask.

He rolled a cigarette and tossed the match into the air,
extinguishing it by a shot from his Colt.

"Got any cigarettes, Hoppy?" said a voice from below.

"Shore," replied the joyous puncher, recognizing Pete; "how'd yu git
here?"

"Like a cow. Busy?"

"None whatever. Comin' up?"

"Nope. Skinny wants a smoke too."

Hopalong handed tobacco and papers down the hole. "So long."

"So long," replied the daring Pete, who risked death twice for a
smoke.

The hot afternoon dragged along and about three o'clock Buck held up
an empty cartridge belt to the gaze of the curious Hopalong. That