Then Hopalong laughed at the ludicrous side of the whole affair, thereby revealing one of the characteristics which endeared him to his friends.  No matter how desperate a situation might be, he could always find in it something at which to laugh.  He laughed going into danger and coming out of it, with a joke or a pleasantry always trembling on the end of his tongue.

“Red, did it ever strike you how cussed thirsty a feller gets just as soon as he knows he can’t have no drink?  But it don’t make much difference, nohow.  We’ll get out of this little scrape just as we’ve allus got out of trouble.  There’s some mad war-whoops outside that are worse off than we are, because they are at the wrong end of yore gun.  I feel sort of sorry for ’em.”

“Yo’re shore a happy idiot,” grinned Red.  “Hey!  Listen!”

Galloping was heard and Hopalong, running to the door, looked out through a crack as sudden firing broke out around the rear of the shack, and fell to pulling away the props, crying, “It’s a puncher, Red; he’s riding this way!  Come on an’ help him in!”

“He’s a blamed fool to ride this way!  I’m with you!” replied Red, running to his side.

Half a mile from the house, coming across the open space as fast as he could urge his horse, rode a cowboy, and not far behind him raced about a dozen Apaches, yelling and firing.

Red picked up his companion’s rifle, and steadying it against the jamb of the door, fired, dropping one of the foremost of the pursuers.  Quickly reloading again, he fired and missed.  The third shot struck another horse, and then taking up his own gun he began to fire rapidly, as rapidly as he could work the lever and yet make his shots tell.  Hopalong drew his Colt and ran back to watch the rear of the house, and it was well that he did so, for an Apache in that direction, believing that the trapped punchers were so busily engaged with the new developments as to forget for the moment, sprinted towards the back window; and he had gotten within twenty paces of the goal when Hopalong’s Colt cracked a protest.  Seeing that the warrior was no longer a combatant, Mr. Cassidy ran back to the door just as the stranger fell from his horse and crawled past Red.  The door slammed shut, the props fell against it, and the two friends turned to the work of driving back the second band, which, however, had given up all hope of rushing the house in the face of Red’s telling fire, and had sought cover instead.

The stranger dragged himself to the canteens and drank what little water remained, and then turned to watch the two men moving from place to place, firing coolly and methodically.  He thought he recognized one of them from the descriptions he had heard, but he was not sure.

“My name’s Holden,” he whispered hoarsely, but the cracking of the rifles drowned his voice.  During a lull he tried again.  “My name’s Holden,” he repeated weakly.  “I’m from the Cross-O-Cross, an’ can’t get back there again.”