"Then, mebby, I can get a drink," chuckled Larkin, brightening under the thought.

"The moon comes up at ten," warned a voice. "It'll be full to-night--an'

there ain't many clouds in sight."

"_Ol' King Cole was a merry ol' soul_," hummed McQuade, lightly.

"An'--a--merry--ol'--soul--was--he!--was--he!" thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. "_He had a wife for every toe, an' some toes counted three!_"

"Listen!" cried Meade, holding up his hand.

"_An' every wife had sixteen dogs, an' every dog a flea!_" shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.

The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the corner of the rear wall. He saw many stars and was silently handed to Pete Wilson.

"What was that noise?" exclaimed Boggs in a low tone. "Are you all right, Terry?" he asked, anxiously.

Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went out, and three more knocks were heard.

"Wonder why they make that funny noise," muttered Boggs.

"b.u.mped inter something, I reckon," replied Jim Larkin. "Get out of my way--I'm next."

Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back. "Don't like that--sounds like a crack on the head. Hey, Jim! _Say_ something!" he called softly. The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious and he shook his head decisively. "To 'ell with the knocking--_say_ something!"

"Still got them twelve men?" asked a strange voice, pleasantly.

"_An' every dog a flea_," hummed another around the corner.

"h.e.l.l!" shouted Boggs. "To the door, fellers! To the door--quick!"

A whistle shrilled from behind the house and a leaden tattoo began on the door. "Other window!" whispered O'Neill. The foreman got there before him and, shoving his Colt out first to clear the way, yelled with rage and pain as a pole hit his wrist and knocked the weapon out of his hand. He was still commenting when Duke Lane pried open the door and, dropping quickly on his stomach, wriggled out, followed closely by Charley Beal and Tim. At that instant the tattoo drummed with greater vigor and such a hail of lead poured in through the opening that the door was promptly closed, leaving the three men outside to shift for themselves with the darkness their only cover.

Duke and his companions whispered together as they lay flat and agreed upon a plan of action. Going around the ends of the house was suicide and no better than waiting for the rising moon to show them to the enemy; but there was no reason why the roof could not be utilized. Tim and Charley boosted Duke up, then Tim followed, and the pair on the roof pulled Charley to their side. Flat roofs were great inst.i.tutions they decided as they crawled cautiously towards the other side. This roof was of hard, sun-baked adobe, over two feet thick, and they did not care if their friends shot up on a gamble.

"Fine place, all right," thought Charley, grinning broadly. Then he turned an agonized face to Tim, his chest rising. "_Hitch! Hitch!_"

he choked, fighting with all his will to master it. "_Hitch-chew!

Hitch-chew! Hitch-chew!_" he sneezed, loudly. There was a scramble below and a ripple of mirth floated up to them.

"_Hitch-chew_?" jeered a voice. "What do we want to hit you for?"

"Look us over, children," invited another.

"Wait until the moon comes up," chuckled the third. "Be like knocking the n.i.g.g.e.r baby down for Red an' the others. Ladies and gents: We'll now have a little sketch ent.i.tled 'Shooting snipe by moonlight.'"

"Jack-snipe, too," laughed Pete. "Will somebody please hold the bag?"

The silence on the roof was profound and the three on the ground tried again.

"Let me call yore attention to the trained coyotes, ladies an' gents,"

remarked Johnny in a deep, solemn voice. "Coyotes are not birds; they do not roost on roofs as a general thing; but they are some intelligent an'

can be trained to do lots of foolish tricks. These ani-mules were--"

"Step this way, people; on-ly ten cents, two nickels," interrupted Pete.

"They bark like dogs, an' howl like h.e.l.l."

"Shut up!" snapped Tim, angrily.

"After the moon comes up," said Hopalong, "when you fellers get tired dodging, you can chuck us yore guns an' come down. An' don't forget that this side of the house is much the safest," he warned.

"Go to h.e.l.l!" snarled Duke, bitterly.

"Won't; they're laying for me down there."

Johnny crawled to the north end of the wall and, looking cautiously around the corner, funnelled his hands: "On the roof, Red! On the roof!"

"Yes, dear," was the reply, followed by gun-shots.

"Hey! Move over!" snapped Tim, working towards the edge furthest from the cheerful Red, whose bullets were not as accurate in the dark as they promised to become in a few minutes when the moon should come up.

"Want to shove me off?" snarled Charley, angrily. "For heaven's sake, Duke, do you want the whole earth?" he demanded of his second companion.

"You just bet yore shirt I do! An' I want a hole in it, too!"

"Ain't you got no sense?"

"Would I be up here if I had?"

"It's going to be hot as blazes up here when the sun gets high,"

cheerfully prophesied Tim: "an' dry, too," he added for a finishing touch.

"We'll be lucky if we're live enough to worry about the sun's heat--_say_, that was a _close_ one!" exclaimed Duke, frantically trying to flatten a little more. "Ah, thought so--there's that blamed moon!"

"Wish I'd gone out the window instead," growled Charley, worming behind Duke, to the latter's prompt displeasure.

"You fellers better come down, one at a time," came from below. "Send yore guns down first, too. Red's a blamed good shot."

"Hope he croaks," muttered Duke. "_That's_ closer yet!"

Tim's hand raised and a flash of fire singed Charley's hair. "Got to do something, anyhow," he explained, lowering the Colt and peering across the plain.

"You d.a.m.ned near succeeded!" shouted Charley, grabbing at his head.

"Why, they're three hundred, an' you trying for 'em with a--_oh!_" he moaned, writhing.

"Locoed fool!" swore Duke, "showing 'em where we are! They're doing good enough as it is! You ought--got _you_, too!"

"_I'm_ going down--that blamed fool out there ain't caring what he hits," mumbled Charley, clenching his hands from pain. He slid over the edge and Pete grabbed him.

"Next," suggested Pete, expectantly.