As he moved them be named the
man be wanted to watch each place where be had reason to suspect that someone
was hiding.
The disheartening part of it was that he needed about a dozen more men than he
had; for the rock wall which was the rim of the Frying-pan seemed alive with
shooters who waited only for a fair target. Then the Native Son, crouched down
between a rock and a clump of brush, turned his head to see what his horse was
looking at, back whence they had come.
"Look behind you, Luck," he advised with more calmness than one would expect
of a man in his straits. "They're back in the pines, too."
"Fight 'em off--and take care that your backs don't show to those babies on
the rim-rocks," he ordered instantly, thrusting his glasses into their case
and snatching his rifle from its boot on the saddle. "They won't tackle coming
across that bare hollow, even if they can get down into it without breaking
their necks. Happy, lead your horse in here between these rocks where mine is.
Bud, see if you can get the pack-horses over there outa sight among those
bushes and rocks. We'll hold 'em off while you fix the horses--can't let
ourselves be set afoot out here!"
"I-should-say--NOT!" Andy Green punctuated the sentence with a shot or two.
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