"Where'd he get yu, Fat?" asked Hopalong.

"G'wan, don't get funny, son," replied Skinny.


Jets of smoke arose from the north and east, where Buck and Red were
stationed, and Pete was half way to the knoll. So far he hadn't been
hit as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a
run of five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head. Another
dash and his empty holster was ripped from its support. As he crouched
behind a rock he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested
individual waving his sombrero to cheer him on. An angry pang! from
the knoll caused that enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.

"Locoed son-of-a-gun," complained Pete. "He'll shore git potted."
Then he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive
spurts of dust.

"How's business, Billy?" he called pleasantly.

"Oh, they'll git me yet," responded the pessimist. "Yu needn't git
anxious. If that off buck wasn't so green he'd `a' had me long ago."

"Ya-hoo! Pete! Oh, Pete!" called Hopalong, sticking his head out at
one side and grinning as the wondering object of his hail craned his
neck to see what the matter was.

"Huh?" grunted Pete, and then remembering the distance he shouted,
"What's th' matter?"