"Which the stage is about half through the canyon, when up on both sides a select assortment of Winchesters begins to bang an' jump permiscus; the same goin' hand-in-hand with whoops of onusual merit. With the first shot Old Monte pours the leather into the team, an' them hosses surges into the collars like cyclones.
"It's lucky aborigines ain't no shots. They never yet gets the phelosophy of a hind sight none, an' generally you can't reach their bullets with a ten-foot pole, they's that high above your head. The only thing as gets hit this time is Texas. About the beginnin', a little cloud of dust flies outen the shoulder of his coat, his face turns pale, an' Cherokee knows he's creased.
"'Did they get you, Old Man?' says Cherokee, some anxious.
"'No,' says Texas, tryin' to brace himse'f. 'I'll be on velvet ag'in in a second. I now longs, however, for that whiskey I hurls overboard so graceful.'
"The Apaches comes tumblin' down onto the trail an' gives chase, a-shootin' an' a-yellin' a heap zealous. As they's on foot, an' as Old Monte is makin' fifteen miles an hour by now, they merely manages to hold their own in the race, about forty yards to the r'ar.
"This don't go on long when Cherokee, after thinkin', says to Texas, 'This yere is the way I figgers it, If we-alls keeps on, them Injuns is that
