A hole opened in the top of Big ’Nacio’s head. He pitched over on his side.
The grinning Milk River shot Peery out of the saddle.
I was under Peery’s right-hand gun when it went off. I was scrambling under his rearing horse’s feet.
Dunne’s revolvers coughed.
“Inside!” I yelled to Milk River, and put two bullets into Dunne’s pony.
Rifle bullets sang every which way across, around, under, over us.
Inside the lighted doorway Milk River hugged the floor, spouting fire and lead from both hands.
Dunne’s horse was down. Dunne got up—caught both hands to his face—went down beside his horse.
Milk River turned off the fireworks long enough for me to dash over him into the house.
While I smashed the lamp chimney, blew out the flame, he slammed the door.
Bullets made music on door and wall.
“Did I do right, shooting that jigger?” Milk River asked.
“Good work!” I lied.
There was no use bellyaching over what was done, but I hadn’t wanted Peery dead. Dunne’s death was unnecessary, too. The proper place for guns is after talk has failed, and I hadn’t run out of words by any means when this brown-skinned lad had gone into action.