"Which same I ain't goin' to," responded the man in the tree.
He swung his rifle out over a forked limb and let it settle in the
crotch. Then he slew his head around until he gained the bead he
wished. Five minutes passed before he caught sight of his man and then
he fired. Jerking out the empty shell he smiled and called out to his
friend: "One."
Hopalong grinned and went off to tell Buck to put all the men in
trees.
Night came on and still the firing continued. Then an explosion
shook the woods. The storehouse had blown up and a sky full of burning
timber fell on the cabins and soon three were half consumed, their
occupants dropping as they gained the open air. One hundred paces
makes fine pot-shooting, as Deacon Rankin discovered when evacuation
was the choice necessary to avoid cremation. He never moved after he
touched the ground and Red called out: "Two," not knowing that his
companion had departed.
The morning of the next day found a wearied and hopeless garrison,
and shortly before noon a soiled white shirt was flung from a window
in the nearest cabin. Buck ran along the line and ordered the firing
to cease and caused to be raised an answering flag of truce. A full
minute passed and then the door slowly opened and a leg protruded,
more slowly followed by the rest of the man, and Cheyenne Charley
strode out to the bank of the river and sat down.
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