The punchers of the Concho laughed.  “Jump him!” shouted “Bull” Cassidy.  “We’ll stand by and see that there’s no monkeyin’.”

Corliss held up his hand.  The Mexicans drew together and the age-old hatred for the Gringo burned in their beady eyes.

Sundown’s thin lips drew tight.  “I’ve a good mind to—­” he began.  The Mexican who had maltreated the cow mistook Sundown’s gesture for intent to kill.  The herder’s gun whipped up.  Sundown grabbed a chair that stood tilted against the house and swung it.  The Mexican went down.  With the accidental explosion of the gun, Mebby-So grunted, put his hand to his side, and toppled from the saddle.  Corliss wheeled his horse.

“Don’t shoot, boys!” he shouted.

His answer was a roar of six-guns.  He felt Chinook shiver.  He jumped clear as the horse rolled to its side.  Sundown, retreating to the house, flung open the bedroom window and kneeling, laid the barrel of his gun on the sill.  Deliberately he sighted, hesitated, and flung the gun from him.  “God Almighty—­I ought to—­but I can’t!” He had seen Corliss fall and thought that he had been killed.  He saw a Mexican raise his gun to fire; saw him suddenly straighten in the saddle.  Then the gun dropped from his hand, and he bent forward upon his horse, recovered, swayed a moment, and fell limply.

Bud Shoop, on foot, ran around to the rear of the house.  His horse lay kicking, shot through the stomach.  The foreman drew himself up under cover of the hen-house and fired into the huddle of Mexicans that swept around the yard as the riders of the Concho drove them back.  He saw “Bull” Cassidy in the thick of it, swinging his guns and swearing heartily.  Finally a Mexican pony, wounded and wild with fright, tore through the barb-wire fence.  Behind him spurred the herders.  Out on the mesa they turned and threw lead at the Concho riders, who retreated to the cover of the house.  Corliss caught up a herder’s horse and rode around to them.  Shorty, one of his men, grinned, fell to coughing, and sank forward on his horse.

“Loring’s down,” said Wingle, solemnly reloading his gun.  “Think they got enough, Jack?”

“Loring, eh?  Well, I know who got him.  Yes, they got enough.”

Shorty, vomiting blood, wiped his lips on his sleeve.  “Well, I ain’t—­not yet,” he gasped. “I’m goin’ to finish in a blaze of glory.  Come on, boys!” And he whirled his horse.  Swaying drunkenly he spurred around the corner of the house and through the gateway.

Corliss glanced at Wingle.  “We can’t let him ride into ’em by his lonesome,” said Wingle.  “Eh, boys?”

“Not on your fat life!” said Bull Cassidy.  “I got one wing that’s workin’ and I’m goin’ to fly her till she gits busted.”

“Let’s clean ’em up!  Might’s well do a good job now we’re at it.  Where’s Bud?”

“He’s layin’ over there back of the chicken-roost.  Reckon he’s thinkin’ things over.  He ain’t sayin’ much.”