cursing again, and Parley was the target for most of it.
Perley? He never answered him, but his face grew harder and harder—and his gun was in his hand again. "Throw out those other two barrels!" he snapped at Lee.
"The redskins will get every last drop if I do," objected Lee, hesitating.
"Owner's risk. We've no station here. Throw 'em out!" repeated Perley, grimmer than before, only this time loud enough for Clancy to hear him.
"Ye do," roared the half-breed, "ye do, an' I'll worse than murdher ye one of these"
"Throw 'em out!" said Perley quietly, waving the go-ahead signal to the engine crew.
And out they went—down the embankment after the first.
Lee jumped to the ground and banged the door shut, just as the drawbars began to snap tight along the train and the local jolted into motion. He waited beside Perley to swing the caboose as it came up. And while he waited he watched and grinned.
Funny? I don't know; it depends on the way you look at it, depends on what you call fun. Lee thought it was funny—then. The air was full of curses, Indian yells, shouts, oaths; and there was one jumbled mess of arms, and legs, and barrels. The Indians were after their fill, and this time Clancy and the stragglers were in the game for keeps.
Up ahead the engine crew hung grinning out of the gangway. Behind, the other brakeman was occupy-
