quiet of the town.
Dan hurried to him, took him by the arm as he was lifting his piece to fire again.
"It's all over, Fred," he said.
The poet's two friends had a laugh at his bloodthirsty eagerness to clean up the town, and a laugh at themselves when it came to take stock of the results of the battle. None of them had a scratch; so far as they knew, none of the other side was hit. Judging from the way that man got up out of the road and jumped the fence, Dan said he must have dropped down there to take a rock out of his boot.
"Whose hat is it, do you know?" Barrett inquired.
Fred Grubb went behind the wagon, out of caution, to strike a match and look over the one trophy of the noisy battle.
"Yes, it's his'n," he said.
"Findlay's?"
"No," disgustedly, "that darn rattlesnake of a Glass!"
There was little said between the three as they mounted and started home. They must have gone three miles when Dan spoke.
"Great shootin'!" he said.
"Finest a bunch of men ever pulled off," Barrett agreed.
On again, a mile or two more, nothing said. Then Fred:
"Well, I must 'a'? missed him," he sighed.
