he began to wriggle
backward, keeping the greasewood clump, and afterwards certain rocks and
little ridges, between himself and a view of the point he had fixed upon
as the spot where the shooter had stood.

When he had rounded the first rock ledge he got up and looked for Helen
May, and found her standing a couple of rods off, watching him anxiously.
He smiled reassuringly at her while he dusted his trousers with the flat
of his hands.

"Fine and dandy," he said. "Whoever took a pot-shot at me thinks he got
me first crack. See? Now listen, lady. That maybe was some herder out
gunning for coyotes, and maybe he was gunning for me. I licked a herder
that ranges over that way, and he maybe thought he'd play even. But
anyway, don't say anything about it to anybody, will you. I kinda--"

"Why not? If he shot at you, he wanted to kill you. And that's murder; he
ought to be--"

"Now, you know you said yourself that herders go crazy. I don't want to
get the poor boob into trouble. Let's not say anything about it. I've got
to go now; I've stayed longer than I meant to, as it is. Have Vic put
that halter that's on the saddle on the pinto, and tie the rope to it and
let it drag. He won't go away, and you can catch him without any bother.
If Vic don't know how to set the saddle, you take notice just how it's
fixed when you take it off. I meant to show you how, but I can't stop
now. And don't go anywhere, not even to the mail box, without Pat or your
six-gun, or both. Come here, Rabbit, you old scoundrel!

"I wish I could stay," he added, swinging up to the saddle and looking
down at her anxiously. "Don't let Vic monkey with that automatic till I
come and show him how to use it. I--"

"You said you were shot," said Helen May, staring at him enigmatically
from under her lashes. "Are you?"

"Not much; burnt a streak on my arm, nothing to bother about. Now
remember and don't leave your gun--"

"I don't believe it was because you licked a herder. What made somebody
shoot at you? Was it--on account of Pat?"

"Pat? No, I don't see what the dog would have to do with it. It was some
half-baked herder, shooting maybe because he heard us shoot and thought
we was using him for a target. You can't," Starr declared firmly, "tell
what fool idea they'll get into their heads. It was our shooting, most
likely. Now I must go. Adios, I'll see yuh before long."

"Well, but what--"

Helen May found herself speaking to the scenery. Starr was