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Nevertheless he swung the pony round and started rapidly in the

direction of the shots. From time to time there came a renewal of

them, though the intervals grew longer and the explosions were

now individual ones. He took the precaution to draw his revolver

from the holster and to examine it carefully.

"Nothing like being sure. It's a heap better than being sorry

afterward," he explained to the cow pony.

For the first time in twelve hours, he struck a road. Following

this as it wound up to the summit of a hill, he discovered that

the area of disturbance was in the valley below. For, as he began

his descent, there was a flash from a clump of cotton-woods

almost at his feet.

"Did yo' git him?" a voice demanded anxiously.

"Don't know, dad," the answer came, young, warm, and tremulous.

"Hello! There's a kid there," the Texan decided. Aloud, he asked

quietly: "What's the row, gentlemen?"

One of the figures whirled--it was the boyish one, crouched

behind a dead horse--and fired at him.