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 liquor 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 observant worthy nodded and threw a double handful of cartridges, one by one, to the patient and unrelenting Buck, who filled his gun and piled the few remaining ones up at his side. "Th' lives of mice and men gang aft all wrong," he remarked at random.
"Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare," marveled Hopalong.
"Satiate any, Buck?" he asked as that worthy settled down to await his chance.
"Two," he replied, "Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here," he complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand that made it never made another. "Three," he called. "How many, Hoppy?"
