one hand, he proudly held up an old, dirty, battered Winchester repeater in the other and whooped a war-cry.
"Blame my hide!" shouted Dad, running out into the street. "It is a G-string! He 's gone an' got one of 'em! He 's gone an' got a 'Pache! Good boy, Kid! An' how 'd you do it?"
Carter plodded through the dust with Bill close behind. "Where 'd you do it?" demanded the proprietor eagerly. To Carter location meant more than method. He was plainly nervous. When he reached the crowd he, in turn, examined the trophies. They were genuine, and on the G-string was a splotch of crimson, muddy with dust.
"What 's in the war-bag, Kid?" demanded Lefty, preparing to see for himself. Jimmy snatched it from his hands. "You never mind what 's in it, Freckle-face!" he snapped. "That 's my bag, now. Want to spoil my luck?"
"How 'd you do it?" demanded Dad breathlessly.
"Where 'd you do it?" snapped Carter. He
