seemed destined to lie on his tongue uncompleted. Dan and Barrett began firing; others came running from the dance hall to the assistance of Glass, summoned by his whooping, shooting as they ran.
The three friends had taken the open side of the road at Cattle Kate's command to get away from the hotel. There was no shelter on that side bigger than a bunch of grass, and the moon, already above the housetops, revealed them sharply against the gray broken ground beyond.
Up the road a hundred yards or more somebody had left a wagon. It looked to Barrett from that distance like a government freight wagon, canvas-topped, heavy. There were no horses near it, apparently it was deserted by whoever owned or drove it. Calling to his comrades, Barrett cut out for this shelter, pegging away at the flashes from the shadows and corners of buildings across the road.
Fred Grubb was first to reach the wagon, passing Barrett on the way almost as if he stood still. Not by fright were these wings lent to the poet's heels, for he no sooner passed behind the wagon than he jumped out into the moonlight again to deliver both barrels of his shotgun toward a bunch of four or five men in front of the dance hall, who were firing on Barrett and Dan.
Fred's unexpected broadside drove them to shelter. The door of the dance hall closed after them, the lights went out.
But from other buildings activities began. It seemed to be the attitude of Bonita to mix whether it was its fight or not; the desire to shoot seemed to be irresistible.
