"Shore; look it over," shouted Lang. "That's what I'm aimin' to do. I'm aimin' to look it over, right to th' finish. I've allus wondered how a man would act in them sands, an' I'm goin' to find out now. Mebby if yo're polite I'll put you out of yore misery when yore chin gets wet. Then I'll ride over to th' Bar H an' tell 'em who kidnapped th' Doc, an' did for Squint. I've seen shows, but this here is goin' to be th' best of th' lot." Johnny's eyes glinted and he fired twice in succession--then a third shot after an interval, endeavoring to force Lang to keep his head down while his other hand worked swiftly under his slicker roll. Emptying one gun, he slipped it back into its holster and used the other, still struggling with the slicker. At the last shot in the second weapon he worked Wolf's gun loose and slipped it into the holster on the far side from Lang. Standing up in his stirrups he gave vent to a burst of profanity and hurled his Colts, one after the other, at the hidden observer. Lang looked up in time to see the first gun bounce from the ground and then the second fell close to it. He laughed nastily and ducked down again as Johnny drew the heavy Sharps from its sheath and sent an ounce of lead smashing into the sand and pebbles close to his head. Another, another, and another struck the top of the ridge, the last striking a rock and screaming high into the air. Then Johnny gripped the heavy weapon at its muzzle with both hands, stood up in his stirrups, whirled it around his head and sent it through the air towards the hidden man. It struck loose sand and slid ten feet in a little cloud of dust. The Triangle puncher looked out again, chuckled, and slowly emerged from his place of refuge.