“Aw, you can’t lick one side of me,” averred Red loftily.  “You never did stop anybody that was anything,” he jeered as he fired from his window.  “Why, you couldn’t even hit the bottom of the Grand Canyon if you leaned over the edge.”

“You could, if you leaned too far, you red-headed wart of a half-breed,” snapped Hopalong.  “But how about the Joneses, Tarantula Charley, Slim Travennes, an’ all the rest?  How about them, hey?”

“Huh!  You couldn’t ‘a’ got any of ’em if they had been sober,” and Mr. Connors shook so with mirth that the Indian at whom he had fired got away with a whole skin and cheerfully derided the marksman.  “That ’Pache shore reckons it was you shooting at him, I missed him so far.  Now, you shut up—­I want to get some so we can go home.  I don’t want to stay out here all night an’ the next day as well,” Red grumbled, his words dying slowly in his throat as he voiced other thoughts.

Hopalong caught sight of an Apache who moved cautiously through a chaparral lying about nine hundred yards away.  As long as the distant enemy lay quietly he could not be discerned, but he was not content with assured safety and took a chance.  Hopalong raised his rifle to his shoulder as the Indian fired and the latter’s bullet, striking the edge of the hole through which Mr. Cassidy peered, kicked up a generous handful of dust, some of which found lodgment in that individual’s eyes.

“Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Wow!” yelled the unfortunate, dancing blindly around the room in rage and pain, and dropping his rifle to grab at his eyes.  “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!”

His companion wheeled like a flash and grabbed him as he stumbled past.  “Are you plugged bad, Hoppy?  Where did they get you?  Are you hit bad?” and Red’s heart was in his voice.

“No, I ain’t plugged bad!” mimicked Hopalong.  “I ain’t plugged at all!” he blazed, kicking enthusiastically at his solicitous friend.  “Get me some water, you jackass!  Don’t stand there like a fool!  I ain’t going to fall down.  Don’t you know my eyes are full of ’dobe?”

Red, avoiding another kick, hastily complied, and as hastily left Mr. Cassidy to wash out the dirt while he returned to his post by the window.  “Anybody’d think you was full of red-eye, the way you act,” muttered Red peevishly.

Hopalong, rubbing his eyes of the dirt, went back to the hole in the wall and looked out.  “Hey, Red!  Come over here an’ spill that brave’s conceit.  I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to aim, an’ it’s a nice shot, too.  It’d serve him right if you got him!”

Mr. Connors obeyed the summons and peered out cautiously.  “I can’t see him, nohow; where is the coyote?”

“Over there in that little chaparral; see him now? There! See him moving.  Do you mean to tell me—­”

“Yep; I see him, all right.  You watch,” was the reply.  “He’s just over nine hundred—­where’s yore Sharps?” He took the weapon, glanced at the Buffington sight, which he found to be set right, and aimed carefully.