emptied, they turned toward the street and saw Hopalong, with blood
oozing from an abrasion on his cheek, sitting up cross-legged, with
each hand holding a gun, from which came thin wisps of smoke.

"Th' son-of-a-gun!" cried Buck, proud and delighted.

"Th' son-of-a-gun!" echoed Red, grinning.








CHAPTER VIII

Hopalong Keeps His Word


The waters of the Rio Grande slid placidly toward the Gulf, the hot
sun branding the sleepy waters with streaks of molten fire. To the
north arose from the gray sandy plain the Quitman Mountains, and
beyond them lay Bass Ca on. From the latter emerged a solitary figure
astride a broncho, and as he ascended the topmost rise he glanced
below him at the placid stream and beyond it into Mexico. As he sat
quietly in his saddle he smiled and laughed gently to himself. The
trail he had just followed had been replete with trouble which had
suited the state of his mind and he now felt humorous, having cleaned
up a pressing debt with his six-shooter. Surely there ought to be a