but
this particular kind of gameness appealed to him.

Weaver glanced around, threw the rifle to his shoulder, and fired
immediately. A chicken, one hundred and fifty yards away, fell over.

"Accidents will happen," suggested Slim.

"That accident happened through the neck, you'll find," Weaver retorted
calmly.

"Betcher."

Buck dropped another rooster.

"You ain't happy unless you're killing something of ours," Slim grinned.
"Well, if you're satisfied with your gun, we'll go ahead and see how
good you are on humans."

They measured the distance, and Sanderson called: "Are you ready?"

"I reckon," came back the answer.

The father gave the signal--the explosion of a revolver. Even as it
flashed, Buck doubled up like a jack rabbit and leaped for the shelter
of a live oak, some thirty yards distant. Four rifles spoke almost at
the same instant, so that between the first and the last not a second
intervened. One of them cracked a second time. But the runner did not
stop until he reached the tree and dropped behind its spreading roots.

"Hunt cover, boys!" the father gave orders. "Don't any of you expose
yourself. We'll have to outflank him, but we'll take our time about it."

He got this out in staccato jerks, the last part of it not until all
were for the moment safe. The strange thing was that Weaver had not
fired once as they scurried for shelter, even though Phil's foot had
caught in a root and held him prisoner for an instant while he freed it.
But as they began circling round him carefully, he fired--first at one
of them and then at another. His shooting was close, but not one of them
was hit. Recalling the incident of the chickens, this seemed odd. In
Slim's phrasing, he did not seem to be so good on "humans."

Behind his live oak, Buck was so well protected that only a chance shot
could reach him before his enemies should outflank him. How long that
would have taken nobody ever found out; for an intervention occurred in
the form of a flying Diana, on horseback, taking the low fence like a
huntress.

It was Phyllis, hatless, her hair flying loose--a picture long to be
remembered. Straight as an arrow she rode for Weaver, flung herself from
the saddle, and ran forward to him, waving her handkerchief as a signal
to her people to cease firing.

"Thank God, I'm in time!" she cried, her voice deep with feeling. Then,
womanlike, she leaned against the tree, and gave way to the emotion that
had been pent