Smoke spurted from windows and other points of vantage and hung
wavering in the heated air. The shattering of woodwork told of heavy
slugs finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in
the air sang the course of .45s.
While the fight raged hottest Mr. Nelson sprang from his horse and
ran to the "Palace," where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like
wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading,
swept the town from end to end.
Mr. Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something. Mr.
Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his
Colts. A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a `dobe
hut and Mr. Connors sat down, firing as he went. A howl from the
window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr. Cassidy ran out
and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much
he was hurt.
"Not much-in the calf," grunted Mr. Connors. "He was a bad shot-must
have been the cuss that got away yesterday," speculated the injured
man as he slowly arose to his feet. Mr. Cassidy dissented from force
of habit and returned to his station.
Mr. Travennes, who was sleeping late that morning, coughed and
fought for air in his sleep, awakened in smoke, rubbed his eyes to
make sure and, scorning trousers and shirt, ran clad in his red woolen
undergarments to the corral, where he mounted his scared horse and
rode for the desert and safety.
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