“Shore, gents; that’s Wild Bill’s hoss. We’ve got him treed an’ out on a limb; to-morry evenin’ we’ll put that long-ha’red skelp of his in a showcase in Independence.” Then McCandlas gives a whoop, an’ bluffs Bill to come out. “Come out yere, Bill; we needs you to decide a bet,” yells McCandlas. “Come out; thar’s no good skulkin’.” “Say, Jake,” retorts Bill; “I’ll gamble that you an’ your hoss thieves ain’t got the sand to come after me. Come at once if you comes; I despises delays, an’ besides I’ve got to be through with you-all an’ back to the stage station by dark.” “I’ll put you where thar ain’t no stage lines, Bill, long before dark,” says McCandlas. An’ with that he comes caperin’ through the window, sash, glass, an’ the entire lay-out, as blithe as May an’ a gun in each hand. Bill cuts loose the Hawkins as he’s anxious to get the big gun off his mind. It stops McCandlas, “squar’ in the door,” as they says in monte; only it’s the window. McCandlas falls dead outside. “An’ I’m sorry for that, too,” says Bill to him-se’f. “I’m preemature some about that shot. I oughter let Jake come in. Then I could have got his guns.” When McCandlas goes down, the ten others charges with a whoop. They comes roarin’ through every window; they breaks in the door; they descends on Bill’s fortress like a ’possum on a partridge nest! An’ then ensoos the busiest season which any gent ever cuts in upon. The air is heavy with bullets an’ thick with smoke. The walls of the room later looks like a colander. It’s a mighty fav’rable fight, an’ Bill don’t suffer none in his repoote that Kansas afternoon. Faster than you can count, his gun barks; an’ each time thar’s a warrior less. One, two, three, four, five, six; they p’ints out after McCandlas an’ not a half second between ’em as they starts. It was good luck an’ good shootin’ in combination. It’s the limit; six dead to a single Colt’s! No gent ever approaches it but once; an’ that’s a locoed sharp named Metzger in Raton. He starts in with Moulton who’s the alcade, an’ beefs five an’ creases another; an’ all to the same one gun. The public, before he can reload, hangs Metzger to the sign in front of the First National Bank, so he don’t have much time to enjoy himse’f reviewin’ said feats. Rifle an’ six-shooter empty; seven dead an’ done, an’ four to take his knife an’ talk it over with! That’s the situation when Bill pulls his bowie an’ starts to finish up. It shore ain’t boy’s play; the quintette who’s still prancin’ about the field is as bitter a combination as you’d meet in a long day’s ride. Their guns is empty, too; an’ they, like Bill, down to the steel. An’ thar’s reason to believe that the fight from this p’int on is even more interestin’ than the part that’s gone before. Thar’s no haltin’ or hangin’ back; thar ain’t a bashful gent in the herd. They goes to the center like one man.