quivered, and turned over with a
bullet hole through it!

He took out his white handkerchief and waved it. Another shot followed,
and the handkerchief was snapped from his fingers, torn from corner
to corner. A feeling of desperation and fury seized him; he was being
played with by a masked and skillful assassin, who only waited until
it pleased him to fire the deadly shot! But this time he could see the
rifle smoke drifting from under a sycamore not a hundred yards away. He
set his white lips together, but with a determined face and unfaltering
step walked directly towards it. In another moment he believed and
almost hoped that all would be over. With such a marksman he would not
be maimed, but killed outright.

He had not covered half the distance before a man lounged out from
behind the tree carelessly shouldering his rifle. He was tall but
slightly built, with an amused, critical manner, and nothing about him
to suggest the bloodthirsty assassin. He met Brice halfway, dropping his
rifle slantingly across his breast with his hands lightly grasping the
lock, and gazed at the young man curiously.

"You look as if you'd had a big scare, old man, but you've clear grit
for all that!" he said, with a critical and reassuring smile. "Now,
what are you doing here? Stay," he continued, as Brice's parched lips
prevented him from replying immediately. "I ought to know your face.
Hello! you're the expressman!" His glance suddenly shifted, and swept
past Brice over the ground beyond him to the entrance of the hollow, but
his smile returned as he apparently satisfied himself that the young man
was alone. "Well, what do you want?"

"I want to see Snapshot Harry," said Brice, with an effort. His voice
came back more slowly than his color, but that was perhaps hurried by a
sense of shame at his physical weakness.

"What you want is a drop o' whiskey," said the stranger good humoredly,
taking his arm, "and we'll find it in that shanty just behind the tree."
To Brice's surprise, a few steps in that direction revealed a fair-sized
cabin, with a slight pretentiousness about it of neatness, comfort, and
picturesque effect, far superior to the Tarbox shanty. A few flowers
were in boxes on the window--signs, as Brice fancied, of feminine taste.
When they reached the threshold, somewhat of this quality was also
visible in the interior. When Brice had partaken of the whiskey,
the stranger, who had kept silence, pointed to a chair, and sai