"That's th' sixth that feller sent up there. He's a damn poor shot," observed Johnny; "must be Shorty."
"Shorty kin shoot plum' good—tain't him," contradicted Billy.
"Yaswith a six-shooter. He's off'n his feed with a rifle," explained Johnny.
"Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit," warned Billy as the disgusted Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt on his neck.
"That's somebody else now. He oughter a done better'n that," he said.
Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved chum. "He could onct, yu means."
"Did yu git him?" asked the anxious Johnny, rubbing his welt.
"Plum' center," responded the business-like Billy. "Go up agin, mebby I kin git another," he suggested tentatively.
"Mebby you kin go to hl. I ain't no gallery," grinned the now exuberant owner of the welt.
"Who's got the buffalo?" he inquired as the great gun roared.
"Mus' be Cowan. He's shore all right. Sounds like a bloomin' cannon," replied Billy. "Lemme alone with yore fool questions, I'm busy," he complained as his talkative partner started to ask another. "Go an' git me some water—I'm alkalied. An' git some .45's, mine's purty near gone."
Johnny crawled down the arroyo and reappeared at Hopalong's barn.
As he entered the door a handful of empty shells fell on his hat and dropped to the floor. He shook his head and remarked, "That mus' be that fool Hopalong."
"Yore shore right. How's business?" inquired the festive Cassidy.
"Purty fair. Billy's got one. How many's gone?"
"Buck's got three, I got two and Skinny's got one. That's six, an' Billy is seven. They's five more," he replied.
