The shattering of woodwork told of heavy slugs finding their rest, and the whines that grew and diminished in the air sang the course of .45s.
While the fight raged hottest Mr.Nelson sprang from his horse and ran to the "Palace," where he collected and piled a heap of tinder like wood, and soon the building burst out in flames, which, spreading, swept the town from end to end.
Mr.Cassidy fired slowly and seemed to be waiting for something.

Mr.
Connors laid aside his hot Winchester and devoted his attention to his Colts.

A spurt of flame and smoke leaped from the window of a 'dobe hut and Mr.Connors sat down, firing as he went.

A howl from the window informed him that he had made a hit, and Mr.Cassidy ran out and dragged him to the shelter of a near-by bowlder and asked how much he was hurt.
"Not much--in the calf," grunted Mr.Connors.

"He was a bad shot--must have been the cuss that got away yesterday," speculated the injured man as he slowly arose to his feet.