The Man from Bar-20
were firing well away from the wall, but he cursed them for the mistakes they might make. Another flash blazed above him, and the sound of the lead and the roar of the gun told him that his enemy was now using a Colt. Ordinarily this would have given him a certain amount of satisfaction, for everyone knows that while a rifle is effective at such a range, a hit with a revolver is largely a matter of luck; but as he leaped back into a handy recess a second bullet from the Colt struck the generous slack of his trousers and burned a welt on that portion of his anatomy where sitting in a saddle would irritate the most. It was a lucky shot, but Holbrook was too much of a pessimist at that moment to derive any satisfaction from the knowledge.
"I'm in a h—l of a pickle!" he growled as the shadows of the recess folded about him. "I can't go up, an' I can't go down—I can't even sit down. I got to wait till that fire dies out—an' suppose they don't let it die? Five minutes more an' I would have won out."
"Hey, Frank! Are you all right?" asked a voice.
"That's Fleming, th' fool," growled Holbrook. "I suppose he wants me to step out on th' edge of the platform an' speak a piece for him."
A laugh rang out at the head of the trail. "Answer th' gentleman," said Johnny in a low voice, fully appreciating Holbrook's feelings. "Don't it beat all how
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