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?"
"Got any cigarettes?" asked Hopalong.
`Yu poor sheep!" said Pete, and turning back to work he drove a .45
into a yellow moccasin.
Hopalong began to itch and he saw that he was near an ant hill. Then
the cactus at his right boomed out mournfully and a hole appeared in
it. He fired at the smoke and a yell informed him that he had made a
hit. "Go `way!" he complained as a green fly buzzed past his nose.
Then he scratched each leg with the foot of the other and squirmed
incessantly, kicking out with both feet at once.
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