also ran in and Pete added five more yards to his advance. Buck made
another dash, but leaped into the air, and, coming down as if from an
intentional high jump, staggered and stumbled for a few paces and then
fell flat, rolling over and over toward the shelter of a split rock,
where he lay quiet. A leering red face peered over the rocks on the
knoll, but the whoop of exultation was cut short, for Red's rifle
cracked and the warrior rolled down the steep bank, where another shot
from the same gun settled him beyond question.

Hopalong choked and, turning his face away, angrily dashed his
knuckles into his eyes. "Blast `em! Blast `em! They've got Buck!
They've got Buck, blast `em! They've got Buck, Skinny! Good old Buck!
They've got him! Jimmy's gone, Johnny's plugged, and now Buck's gone!
Come on!" he sobbed in a frenzy of vengeance. "Come on, Skinny! We'll
tear their cussed hides into a deeper red than they are now! Oh, blast
it, I can't see-where's my gun?" He groped for the rifle and fought
Skinny when the latter, red-eyed but cool, endeavored to restrain him.
"Lemme go, curse yu! Don't yu know they got Buck? Lemme go!"

"Down! Red's got di' skunk. Yu can't do nothin'-they'd drop yu afore
yu took five steps. Red's got him, I tell yu! Do yu want me to lick
yu? We'll pay `em back with interest if yu'll keep yore head!"
exclaimed Skinny, throwing the crazed man heavily.

Musical tones, rising and falling in weird octaves, whining
pityingly, diabolically, sobbing in a fascinating monotone and
slobbering in ragged chords, calling as they swept over the plain,
always calling and exhorting, they mingled in barbaric discord with
the defiant barks of the six-shooters and the inquiring cracks of the
Winchesters. High up in the air several specks sailed and drifted,