his time, and knew the
opportunity was near.

Suddenly the mustang wheeled again. At the moment of doing so, he was
closer to the defenders than at any period before. The rider rose to
view for a moment, like a leaper going over a fence sideways. Then as he
descended on the other side of the steed, he continued descending until
he struck the ground, where he rolled over a single time and never
stirred again.

At the critical instant, Captain Shirril had fired. An ear-splitting
screech followed, and that particular Comanche was eliminated from the
problem that confronted him.

The riderless horse flung up his head, with a whinny of affright, and,
looking hither and thither, as if unable to understand the meaning of
the occurrence, dashed off to join his companions, further away on the
prairie.

The thin puff of smoke had not lifted from before the captain's face,
when his nephew let fly at one of the warriors, who was extended along
the back of his animal, as if inviting a shot. Avon missed, and the
Indian, with astonishing quickness, brought his own gun to a level and
fired in return. The ball nipped the brim of his sombrero, passing so
close that for a second the youth believed he was hit.

The situation was growing serious, and, since this particular Comanche
was so defiant, Avon decided that the occasion was a good one for the
use of a repeating weapon. Without pausing to take special aim, he fired
three times in rapid succession at his foe.

Though the latter escaped for the moment, his steed was less fortunate.
He was hit hard by the first shot, while the last brought him to earth
with a bullet through his brain.

His rider was too nimble to be caught by the fall, but, leaping clear,
ran swiftly across the plain in the effort to get beyond reach of the
rifle, which seemed to be raining bullets all around him. His courage
had given place to panic, and as he ran he bounded from side to side and
up and down with the grotesque contortions of a Digger Indian when
seeking to baffle the aim of an enemy.

Avon continued his fusillade, and by a piece of pure accident winged the
fugitive. He did not fall, but the height of his leap and the resonance
of his outcry, instantly succeeded by a pronounced limp in his gait,
left no doubt that he had gotten in the path of the hurtling messenger.

"How are you making out, Baby?" asked Captain Shirril, turning his head
and coolly scrutinizing his relative.

"Only fairly,