Wharabouts are we, Matt?"
"Back o' the bunk-house. Whar do yer want ter go? I kin travel 'round
yere with my eyes shut."
"The front o' Mendez's cabin," said the marshal shortly. "Better take
the other side; if that door is down we'll take those fellows in the
rear afore they know what's happening." He chuckled grimly. "We've
sure played in luck so far, boys; go easy now, and draw yer guns."
They were half-way along the side wall when the firing began--but it
was not the Mexicans this time who began it. The shotgun barked; there
was the sound of a falling body; two revolver shots and then the sharp
ping of a Winchester. Brennan leaped past the boy ahead, and rounded
the corner. A Mexican stood directly in front of the shattered door
peering in, a rifle yet smoking in his hands. With one swift blow of a
revolver butt the marshal dropped him in his tracks, the fellow rolling
off the steps onto the ground. With outstretched hands he stopped the
others, holding them back out of any possible view from within.
"Quick now, before that bunch inside gets wise to what's up.
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