And it was then that I swung morally far back to the primitive, and wanted to kill, and kill, with never a thought for parley or retreat.

Frosty, like the stanch old pal he was, pulled up and came back to me, though the bullets were flying fast and thick--and not wide enough for derision on our part.
"Jump up behind," he commanded, shooting as he spoke.

"We'll get out of this damned trap." I had my doubts, and fired away without paying him much attention.
I wanted, more than anything, to get the man who had shot down Shylock.
That isn't a pretty confession, but it has the virtue of being the truth.
So, while Frosty fired at the spurts of red and cursed me for stopping there, I crouched behind my dead horse and fought back with evil in my heart and a mighty poor aim.
Then, just as the first excitement was hardening into deliberate malevolence, came a clatter from beyond the house, and a chorus of familiar yells and the spiteful snapping of pistols.

It was our boys--thirty of the biggest-hearted, bravest fellows that ever wore spurs, and, as they came thundering down to us, I could make out the bent, wiry figure of old Perry Potter in the lead, yelling and shooting wickeder than any one else in the crowd.
"Ellis!" he shouted, and I lifted up my voice and let him know that, like Webster, "I still lived." They came on with a rush that the King faction could not stay, to where I was ambushed between the solid walls of two sheds, with Shylock's bulk before me and Frosty swearing at my back.
"Horse hit ?" snapped Perry Potter breathlessly.

"I knowed it.