necks
of their horses, and shot with stationary guns; while yet others, with
reins dangling free, worked the levers of blue Winchesters so rapidly
that the flashes seemed to merge into a continuous flame.

"Thank God! Thank God--an' Hoppy!" groaned the man at the door of the
shack, staggering forward to meet the two men who had lost no time in
pursuit of the enemy, but had ridden straight to him.

"I was scared stiff you was done fer!" cried Hopalong, leaping off his
horse and shaking hands with his friend, whose hand-clasp was not as
strong as usual. "How's Holden?" he demanded, anxiously.

"He passed. It was a close--" began Red, weakly, but his foreman
interposed.

"Shut up, an' drink this!" ordered Buck, kindly but sternly. "We'll do
the talking for a while; you can tell us all about it later on. Why,
_hullo_!" he cried as Lanky Smith and his two happy companions rode up.
"Reckon you must 'a' got them pickets."

"Shore we did! Stalked 'em on our bellies, didn't we, Skinny?" modestly
replied Mr. Smith, the roping expert of the Bar-20. "Ropes an' clubbed
guns did the rest. Anyhow, there was only two anywhere near the trail."

"We didn't see you," responded the foreman, tying the knot of a bandage
on Mr. Connors' arm. "An' we looked sharp, too."

"Reckon we was hunting for more; we sort of forgot what you said about
waiting for you," Mr. Smith replied, grinning broadly.

"An' you've got a good memory now," smiled Mr. Peters.

"We didn't find no more, though," offered Mr. Pete Wilson, with grave
regret. "An' we looked good, too. But we got Red, an' that's the whole
game. Red, you old son-of-a-gun, you can lick yore weight in powder!"

"It's too bad about Holden," muttered Red, sullenly.

CHAPTER XI

HOPALONG NURSES A GROUCH

After the excitement incident to the affair at Powers' shack had died
down and the Bar-20 outfit worked over its range in the old, placid way,
there began to be heard low mutterings, and an air of peevish discontent
began to be manifested in various childish ways. And it was all caused
by the fact that Hopalong Cassidy had a grouch, and a big one. It
was two months old and growing worse daily, and the signs threatened
contagion. His foreman, tired and sick of the snarling, fidgety,
petulant atmosphere that Hopalong had created on the ranch, and
driven to desperation, eagerly sought some chance to get rid of the
"sore-thumb" temporarily and give him an opportunity to shed his
gene