A voice answered, but there was no diminution in the firing. Ware’s Kid crawled down the track, having reloaded his carbine. With his first shot a man cried out shrilly. He pumped the lever and--his carbine jammed. He spat a bitter curse. He knew instantly what had happened--he had slipped a .45 pistol cartridge into a .44 carbine. A huge shape hurled itself at him. Mechanically, he threw up his carbine and the oncoming man ran into it. Then Ware’s Kid, tugging at the butt of his seldom-used Colt, leaped aside. A roar sounded, almost in his ear. Then a hand caught his shoulder. Instinctively he stepped close to his assailant, turned like a flash when a pistol brushed him; dropped his Colt and caught the fellow’s gunhand with both of his and hung on grimly. “Somethin’s wrong, boys! Let’s git out o’ yere!” a cool, half-laughing voice was shouting, down the track--not the voice which had called Simp Dunbar’s name. The fellow with whom Ware’s Kid grappled was swinging terrific blows at his lighter opponent. But the Ranger’s head was against his chest; the big fellow’s fists but grazed their mark. But he was tiring with his bulldog grip on the other’s gunhand. Suddenly he released his hold and tried to leap backward. A heel caught on a bunch of grass and he stumbled. A flash and roar from in front of him; a stinging pain across his head. He crashed flat. * * * * * He came to, conscious of a dull headache and, next, of a dim light over his head. After a moment of blinking, he perceived that he was sitting in a chair of a railway coach. Next he realized that the train was moving. “How d’ you-all feel, now?” inquired an anxious voice. Painfully he turned his head and saw Bos’ Johnson’s worried face opposite him. “Right puny!” he grunted truthfully. Johnson grinned widely, relief in his brown eyes. “What happened?” demanded Ware’s Kid. “Bullet creased you-all. You-all been pickin’ daisies might’ nigh a hour.” “The hell! Where we goin’? Gang git away?” “Goin’ into Dallas. Yeh, gang high-tailed it--all but Simp Dunbar,” said Johnson. “Reckon they’ll most all be a-lickin’ some sore spots, though. Me ’n’ you-all did right smart o’ shootin’! I hollered fer Simp an’ like a dam’ jughead, he spoke right up. I snuck up onto him an’ told him who I was.” He lifted his arm and in the loose flannel of his shirt beneath it, showed a great hole with charred edges. “Might’ nigh got me, first crack! But I worked buttonholes up an’ down his front ’fore he could shoot ag’in!” “How-come yuh found me?” “By lookin’ around,” shrugged Johnson affectionately. “You dam’ red-eyed li’l runt! You-all think I’d hike out an’ leave you-all out there, some’r’s, fer the gang, mebbe, to find? I come runnin’ up about the time you-all tumbled; see that hairpin right on top me--an’ me with an empty gun! I yelled like a Comanche an’ damned if he neveh broke an’ run.”