“Must be a dozen,” hastily replied Neal, who had not remained idle.  Both he and Barr were working like mad men moving boxes and barrels against the walls to make a breastwork capable of stopping the bullets which came through the boards.

“I reckon—­I’m bleeding inside,” Jackson muttered, wearily and without hope.  “Wonder how—­long we—­can hold out?”

“We’ll hold out till we’re good an’ dead!” replied Johnny, hotly.  “They ain’t got us yet an’ they’ll pay for it before they do.  If we can hold ‘em off till Buck an’ the rest come back we’ll have the pleasure of seeing ’em buried.”

“Oh, I’ll get you next time!” assured Barr to an enemy, slipping a fresh cartridge into the Sharps and peering intently at a slight rise on the muddy plain.  “You shoot like yo’re drunk,” he mumbled.

“But what is it all about, anyhow?” asked Neal, finding time for an immaterial question.  “Who are they?—­can’t see nothing but blurs through this rain!”

“Yes; what’s the game?” asked Barr, mildly surprised that he had not thought of it before.

“It’s that Oasis gang,” Johnny responded.  He fired, and growled with disappointment.  “Harlan’s at the head of it,” he added.

“Edwards—­told Harlan to—­get out of—­town,” Jackson began.

“An’ to take his gang with him,” Johnny interposed quickly to save Jackson from the strain.  “They had till dark.  Guess the rest.  Oh, you coyote!” he shouted, staggering back.  There was a report farther down the barricade and Neal called out, “I got him, Nelson; he’s done.  How are you?”

“Mad!  Mad!” yelled Johnny, touching his twice-wounded shoulder and dancing with rage and pain.  “Right in the same place!  Oh, wait! Wait! Hey, gimme a rifle—­I can’t do nothing with a Colt at this range; my name ain’t Hopalong,” and he went slamming around the room in hot search of what he wanted.

“There ain’t—­no more—­Johnny,” feebly called Jackson, raising slightly to ease himself.  “You can have—­my gun purty—­soon.  I won’t be able—­to use it—­much longer.”

“Why don’t Buck an’ Hoppy hurry up!” snarled Johnny.

“Be a long time—­mebby,” mumbled Jackson, his trembling hands trying to steady the rifle.  “They’re all—­around us. Ah, missed!” he intoned hoarsely, trying to pump the lever with unobeying hands.  “I can’t last—­much—­” the words ceased abruptly and the clatter of the rifle on the floor told the story.

Johnny stumbled over to him and dragged him aside, covering the upturned face with his own sombrero, and picked up the rifle.  Rolling a barrel of flour against the wall below the window he fixed himself as comfortably as possible and threw a shell into the chamber.

“Now, you coyotes; you pay me for that!” he gritted, resting the gun on the window sill and holding it so he could work it with one hand and shoulder.

“Wonder how them pups ever pumped up enough courage to cut loose like this?” queried Neal from behind his flour barrel.