ars before and there had been not so much as a post-hole
to herald the harnessing of the mesa.

Here, then, was the explanation of the fanlike spreading out of the line
of Indians. They knew that the white men would be trapped by the fence,
and they were cutting off the retreat--and keeping out of the hottest
danger-zone of the white men's guns. Even while the four were grasping
the full significance of the trap that they had ridden into unaware, the
Indians topped the ridge behind them, yip-yip-yipping gleefully their
coyotelike yells of triumph. The sound so stirred the slow wrath of Lite
Avery that, without waiting for the word from Applehead he twisted
half around in his saddle, glanced at the nearest Indian along his
rifle-sights, bent his forefinger with swift deliberation upon the
trigger, and emptied the saddle of one yelling renegade, who made haste
to crawl behind a clump of rabbit weed.

"They howl like a mess uh coyotes," Lite observed in justification of
the shot, "and I'm getting sick of hearing 'em."

"Mama!" Weary, exclaimed annoyedly, "that darn fence is on an up-slope,
so it's going to be next to impossible to jump it! I guess here's where
we do about an eight-hundred-foot scene of Indian Warfare, or Fighting
For Their Lives. How yuh feel, Cadwalloper?"

"Me?" Pink's eyes were purple with sheer, fighting rage. "I feel like
cleaning out that bunch back there. They'll have something to howl about
when I get through!"

"Stay back uh me, boys!" Applehead's voice had a masterful sharpness
that made the three tighten reins involuntarily. "You foller me and
don't crowd up on me, neither. Send back a shot or two if them Injuns
gits too ambitious."

The three fell in behind him without cavil or question. He was in charge
of the outfit, and that settled it. Pink, released from irksome inaction
by the permission to shoot, turned and fired back at the first Indian
his sights rested upon. He saw a spurt of sand ten jumps in advance of
his target, and he swore and fired again without waiting to steady his
aim. The sorrel pack-horse, loping along fifty yards or so behind with
a rhythmic clump-clump of frying-pan against coffee-pot at every leap he
took, swerved sharply, shook his head as though a bee had stung him,
and came on with a few stiff-legged "crow hops" to register his violent
objection to being shot through the ear.

Pink, with an increased respect for the shooting skill of Lite Avery,
glanced guilt