Bill stuck his pudgy finger in the hole. “The second bullet made thet. It was from old Hiram's gun--a 45-90!” “Bent an' Leslie! My God! They're shootin' to kill!” cried Buell. “I should smile,” replied Herky-Jerky. Bud was peeping out through a chink between the logs. “I got their smoke,” he said; “look, Bill, up the slope. They're too fur off, but we may as well send up respects.” With that he aimed his revolver through the narrow crack and deliberately shot six times. The reports clapped like thunder, the smoke from burnt powder and the smell of brimstone filled the room. By way of reply old Hiram's rifle boomed out twice, and two heavy slugs crashed through the roof, sending down a shower of dust and bits of decayed wood. “Thet's jist to show what a 45-90 can do,” remarked Bill. Bud reloaded his weapon while Bill shot several times. Herky-Jerky had his gun in hand, but contented himself with peering from different chinks between the logs. I hid behind the wide stone fireplace, and though I felt pretty safe from flying bullets, I began to feel the icy grip of fear. I had seen too much of these men in excitement, and knew if circumstances so brought it about there might come a moment when my life would not be worth a pin. They were all sober now, and deadly quiet. Buell showed the greatest alarm, though he had begun to settle down to what looked like fight. Herky was more fearless than any of them, and cooler even than Bill. All at once I missed the Mexican. If he had not slipped out of the room he had hidden under the brush of the fallen loft or in a pile of blankets. But the room was smoky, and it was hard for me to be certain. Some time passed with no shots and with no movement inside the cabin. Slowly the blue smoke wafted out of the door. The sunlight danced in gleams through the holes in the ragged roof. There was a pleasant swish of pine branches against the cabin. “Listen,” whispered Bud, hoarsely. “I heerd a pony snort.” Then the rapid beat of hard hoofs on the trail was followed by several shots from the hillside. Soon the clatter of hoofs died away in the distance. “Who was thet?” asked three of Buell's men in unison. “Take it from me, Greaser's sneaked,” replied Buell. “How'd he git out?” With that Bud and Bill began kicking in the piles of brush. “Aha! Hyar's the place,” sang out Bud. In one corner of the back wall a rotten log had crumbled, and here it was plain to all eyes that Greaser had slipped out. I remembered that on this side of the cabin there was quite a thick growth of young pine. Greaser had been able to conceal himself as he crawled toward the horses, and had probably been seen at the last moment. Herky-Jerky was the only one to make comment. “I ain't wishin' Greaser any hard luck, but hope he carried away a couple Of 45-90 slugs somewheres in his yaller carcass.” “It'd be worth a lot to the feller who can show me a way out of this mess,” said Buell, mopping the beads of sweat from his face.