ooter on the table. "I wonder who th' dirty killer was." He looked
at the slim figure and started to go out, followed by Johnny. As he
reached the threshold a bullet zipped past him and thudded into the
frame of the door. He backed away and looked surprised. "That's Shorty's
shootin'--he allus misses 'bout that much." He looked out and saw Buck
standing behind the live oak that Shorty had leaned against, firing at
the hotel. Turning around he made for the rear, remarking to Johnny that
"they's in th' Houston." Johnny looked at the quiet figure in the chair
and swore softly. He followed Billy. Cowan, closing the door and taking
a buffalo gun from under the bar, went out also and slammed the rear
door forcibly.

CHAPTER III. The Argument

Up the street two hundred yards from the Houston House Skinny and Pete
lay hidden behind a bowlder. Three hundred yards on the other side of
the hotel Johnny and Billy were stretched out in an arroyo. Buck was
lying down now, and Hopalong, from his position in the barn belonging to
the hotel, was methodically dropping the horses of the besieged, a job
he hated as much as he hated poison. The corral was their death trap.
Red and Lanky were emitting clouds of smoke from behind the store,
immediately across the street from the barroom. A buffalo gun roared
down by the plaza and several Sharps cracked a protest from different
points. The town had awakened and the shots were dropping steadily.

Strange noises filled the air. They grew in tone and volume and then
dwindled away to nothing. The hum of the buffalo gun and the sobbing
pi-in-in-ing of the Winchesters were liberally mixed with the sharp
whines of the revolvers.

There were no windows in the hotel now. Raw furrows in the bleached wood
showed yellow, and splinters mysteriously sprang from the casings. The
panels of the door were producing cracks and the cheap door handle
flew many ways at once. An empty whisky keg on the stoop boomed out
mournfully at intervals and finally rolled down the steps with a
rumbling protest. Wisps of smoke slowly climbed up the walls and seemed
to be waving defiance to the curling wisps in the open.

Pete raised his shoulder to refill the magazine of his smoking rifle and
dropped the cartridges all over his lap. He looked sheepishly at Skinny
and began to load with his other hand.

"Yore plum loco, yu are. Don't yu reckon they kin hit a blue shirt
at two hundred?" Skinny cynically inquired. "Got