s, one of whom had been brought down by
Tip McCay, the other by the lantern-jawed, slow-spoken plainsman known
as Scotty. The others had beaten a quick retreat to the shelter of the
saloon.

CHAPTER VIII

ONE GAME HOMBRE

Hardy's gang did not attempt another rush. They had learned their
lesson. Keeping under cover, they continued firing steadily, however,
and their bullets began to do damage. Every crack and chink was a
target.

In the afternoon, more riders arrived to swell the Hardy faction. Some
were ugly, half-clothed Indians, armed with rusty guns and bows and
arrows. The odds were steadily increasing.

As there was ample food and water in the storehouse to last for several
days, the besieged had no worries on that score. McCay knew, though,
and Kid Wolf realized, that nightfall would bring trouble. Hardy was
stung now by the loss of several men, and he would not do things by
halves. He would show no mercy.

The first casualty took place in midafternoon. Anderson, in the act of
aiming his revolver through a loophole, was hit between the eyes by a
bullet and instantly killed. The number of men defending the store was
now cut down to seven.

Toward nightfall, tragedy overtook them, full force. Old Beef McCay
was in the act of reloading a gun when a treacherous bullet zipped
spitefully through an opening between two logs and caught him low in
the chest. The impact sent him staggering against the wall, his round,
moonlike face white and drawn.

"Dad!" called out Tip, in an agony of grief.

He and Kid Wolf rushed to the wounded man, supporting his great weight
as it slowly sagged.

"Got me--son!" the cattleman jerked out.

Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the
wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few
inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet.

"I'm done--all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf.
I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle,
if yuh ever get out of here alive. Yuh promise to try?" He turned
glazing eyes at the Texan. "The cattle should go--to Tip's mother.
She's in Dodge City."

"Believe me, sah," promised Kid Wolf earnestly, "if we evah get out of
this trap alive, Tip and I will do ouah best."

The stricken man's face lighted. He grasped his son, Tip, with one
hand, the Texan with the other.

"I'll pass on easier now."

Suddenly he drew himself up to