“Yes?” sarcastically rejoined Mr. Cassidy in his throat, and then shouted in reply:  “Love an’ liquor don’t mix very well in you.  Wake up!  Come out of it!”

“That’s straight—­I mean it!” cried Mr. Connors, close enough now to save the remainder of his lungs.  “It’s a bunch of young bucks on their first war-trail, I reckon.  ’T ain’t Geronimo, all right; I wouldn’t be here now if it was.  Three of ’em chased me an’ the two that are left are coming hot-foot somewhere the other side of them hills.  They act sort of mad, too.”

“Mebby they ain’t acting at all,” cheerily replied his companion.  “An’ then that’s the way you got that graze?” pointing to a bloody furrow on Mr. Connors’ cheek.  “But just the same it looks like the trail left by a woman’s finger nail.”

“Finger nail nothing,” retorted Mr. Connors, flushing a little.  “But, for God’s sake, are you going to sit here like a wart on a dead dog an’ wait for ’em?” he demanded with a rising inflection.  “Do you reckon yo’re running a dance, or a party, or something like that?”

“How many?” placidly inquired Mr. Cassidy, gazing intently towards the high sky-line of the distant hills.

“Two—­an’ I won’t tell you again, neither!” snapped the owner of the furrowed cheek.  “The others are ’way behind now—­but we’re standing still!”

“Why didn’t you say there was others?” reproved Hopalong.  “Naturally I didn’t see no use of getting all het up just because two sprouted papooses feel like crowding us a bit; it wouldn’t be none of our funeral, would it?” and the indignant Mr. Cassidy hurriedly dismounted and hid his horse in a nearby chaparral and returned to his companion at a run.

“Red, gimme yore Winchester an’ then hustle on for a ways, have an accident, fall off yore cayuse, an’ act scared to death, if you know how.  It’s that little trick Buck told us about, an’ it shore ought to work fine here.  We’ll see if two infant feather-dusters can lick the Bar-20.  Get a-going!”

They traded rifles, Hopalong taking the repeater in place of the single-shot gun he carried, and Red departed as bidden, his face gradually breaking into an enthusiastic grin as he ruminated upon the plan.  “Level-headed old cuss; he’s a wonder when it comes to planning or fighting.  An’ lucky,—­well, I reckon!”

Hopalong ran forward for a short distance and slid down the steep bank of a narrow arroyo and waited, the repeater thrust out through the dense fringe of grass and shrubs which bordered the edge.  When settled to his complete satisfaction and certain that he was effectually screened from the sight of any one in front of him, he arose on his toes and looked around for his companion, and laughed.  Mr. Connors was bending very dejectedly apparently over his prostrate horse, but in reality was swearing heartily at the ignorant quadruped because it strove with might and main to get its master’s foot off its head so it could arise.  The man in the arroyo turned again and watched the hills and it was not long before he saw two Indians burst into view over the crest and gallop towards his friend.  They were not to be blamed because they did not know the pursued had joined a friend, for the second trail was yet some distance in front of them.