blazed Tom.

The fire from the camp had died out. That from the assailants
beyond had ceased at least thirty seconds earlier.

One sharp report broke the hush that followed.

"Who's doing that work? Stop it!" ordered Fulsbee, turning
wrathfully.

"I'm through," grinned Harry meekly.

"What do you mean by shooting at a flag of truce?" demanded the
deputy sheriff angrily.

"I didn't," Harry argued, laying the rifle down on the ground.
"I sent one in with my compliments, to see whether the fellow
with the white rag would get the trembles. I guess he did, for
the white rag has gone out of sight."

"They may start the firing again," uttered Dave Fulsbee. "They'll
feel that you don't respect their flag of truce."

"I didn't feel a heap of respect for the fellow that held up the
white flag," Hazelton admitted, with another grin. "It was Bad
Pete, and I wanted to see what his nerve was like when someone
else was doing the shooting and he was the target."

"Peter simply flopped and dropped his gun, Tom declared.

"Say," muttered Harry, his face showing real concern, "I hope
I didn't hit him."

"Did you aim at him?" demanded Tom.

"I did not."

"Then there _is_ some chance that Peter was hit," Tom confessed.
"Harry, when you're shooting at a friend, and in a purely hospitable
way, always aim straight for him. Then the poor fellow will have
a good chance to get off with a whole skin!"

"Cut out that line of talk," ordered Hazelton, his face growing
red. "Back in the old home days, Tom, you've seen me do some
great shooting."

"With the putty-blower---yes," Tom admitted, with a chuckle.
"Say, wasn't Old Dut Jones, of the Central Grammar, rough on boys
who used putty-blowers in the schoolroom?"

"If Pete was hit, it wasn't my shot that did it," muttered Harry,
growing redder still. "I aimed for the centre of that white rag.
If we ever come across the rag we'll find my bullet hole through
it. That was what I hit."

Deputy Dave's assistant was now cleaning out the soot-choked barrels
of the machine gun, that the piece might be fit for use again as soon
as the barrels had cooled.

"I reckon," declared Dave, "that our friends have done their worst.
It's my private wager that they're now doing a foot race for the
back trails."

"Is any one of our fellows hit?" called Tom, striding over to
the late firing line. "Anyone hit? If so, we must take care
of him at once."

Tom went the length of the line,