In quiet voices the men passed the word along the line. Those
from the farther end drew in closer so that their whole body of
something better than thirty men occupied but a brief section of the
arroyo.
"Get your wind first, boys," Norton admonished them. "Better fill your
clips, too, while you've got the chance. And count on using a six gun
before you're through. All right? Let's show 'em the sort of a scrap
a Gringo _can_ put up."
Then again they were running, the unwavering line of thirty men, but
with a difference which the outlaws might not mistake. And as they ran
they held their fire for a little, knowing how useless and suicidal it
would be to pause half-way. But presently they were answering shot
with shot, pausing, going down upon one knee, taking a moment's
advantage of a friendly rock, pouring lead into the agitated groups
among the boulders, springing up, running on again, every man fighting
the fight his own way, the thirty of them making the air tingle with
their shouts as they bore onward.
Then it was man to man and often enough one man to two or three, dark
forms struggling, men striking with clubbed guns, men snatching at
their side-arms, going down, rising or half rising, firing as long as a
charge was in a gun or strength in a body.
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