So far he hadn't been hit as he dodged in and out, and, emboldened by his luck, he made a run of five yards and his sombrero was shot from his head.

Another dash and his empty holster was ripped from its support.

As he crouched behind a rock he heard a yell from Hopalong, and saw that interested individual waving his sombrero to cheer him on.

An angry pang! from the knoll caused that enthusiastic rooter to drop for safety.
"Locoed son-of-a-gun," complained Pete.

"He'll shore git potted." Then he glanced at Billy, who was the center of several successive spurts of dust.
"How's business, Billy ?" he called pleasantly.
"Oh, they'll git me yet," responded the pessimist.