I will. But don't you want the rest of the water? I ain't a
bit thirsty--I had all I could hold just before you came," Red remarked
as his companion pushed the canteen against him in the dark. He was
choking with thirst. "Well, then; all right," and Red pretended to
drink. "Now, then, you go to sleep; a good snooze will do you a world of
good--it's just what you need."

CHAPTER X

BUCK TAKES A HAND

Cowan's saloon, club, and place of general assembly for the town of
Buckskin and the nearby ranches, held a merry crowd, for it was pay-day
on the range and laughter and liquor ran a close race. Buck Peters,
his hands full of cigars, passed through the happy-go-lucky,
do-as-you-please crowd and invited everybody to smoke, which nobody
refused to do. Wood Wright, of the C-80, tuned his fiddle anew and swung
into a rousing quick-step. Partners were chosen, the "women" wearing
handkerchiefs on their arms to indicate the fact, and the room shook and
quivered as the scraping of heavy boots filled the air with a cloud of
dust. "Allaman left!" cried the prompter, and then the dance stopped as
if by magic. The door had crashed open and a blood-stained man staggered
in and towards the bar, crying, "Buck! Red's hemmed in by 'Paches!"

"Good God!" roared the foreman of the Bar-20, leaping forward, the
cigars falling to the floor to be crushed and ground into powder by
careless feet. He grasped his puncher and steadied him while Cowan slid
an extra generous glassful of brandy across the bar for the wounded man.
The room was in an uproar, men grabbing rifles and running out to get
their horses, for it was plain to be seen that there was hard work to be
done, and quickly. Questions, threats, curses filled the air, those
who remained inside to get the story listening intently to the jerky
narrative; those outside, caring less for the facts of an action past
than for the action to come, shouted impatiently for a start to be made,
even threatening to go on and tackle the proposition by themselves if
there were not more haste. Hopalong told in a graphic, terse manner all
that was necessary, while Buck and Cowan hurriedly bandaged his wounds.

"Come on! Come on!" shouted the mounted crowd outside, angry, and
impatient for a start, the prancing of horses and the clinking of metal
adding to the noise. "Get a move on! _Will_ you hurry up!"

"Listen, Hoppy!" pleaded Buck, in a furore. "Shut up, you outside!" he
yelled. "You say they know