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The old man concluded with a promise that if Young Pete liked to shoot, he should some day have a gun of his own if he, in turn, would agree to do no shooting without permission. The promise of a real gun of his own touched Young Pete's tough little heart. He stuck out his hand. The compact was sealed. "Git a thirty-thirty," he suggested. "What do you know about thirty-thirties?"
Suddenly out of the grass burst a blue quail, running with wings outstretched and every feather ruffled angrily. It paused, the man's cheeks snuggled against the stock of his gun, and the bark of the thirty-thirty sounded loudly. Mrs. Austin saw that he had shot the little bird's head off. She spoke, but he stilled her with a gesture, threw in a second shell, and repeated his magic call.
If that tug hadn't sheered off she would have cut us down, sure." "That fellow done it a-purpose," George swore. "Seamen ain't that careless. He tried to tell me he was rattled, but I rattled him." "If that's the case they may try it again," said the younger man. "Huh! I'll pack a 'thirty-thirty' from now on, and I bet they don't get within hailing distance without an iron-clad."
Nor did he connect the rifle-shots with the passing of the peril. He did not know, and he was never to know, that one, known to men as Harley Kennan, but known as "Husband-Man" by the woman he called "Wife-Woman," who owned the three-topmast schooner yacht Ariel, had saved his life by sending a thirty-thirty Marlin bullet through the base of a shark's fin.
Its nose was spread to the size of a half dollar, its butt-end, steel-jacketed, was undamaged. He compared it with a cartridge from Smoke's belt. "That's plain enough evidence, stranger, to satisfy a blind man. It's soft-nosed an' steel-jacketed; yourn is soft-nosed and steel-jacketed. It's thirty-thirty; yourn is thirty-thirty.
Next came the distant rattle of loosened stones evidently one horse was being urged toward the open high ground then the peaceful quiet evening was split by the report of Law's thirty-thirty. Another shot followed, and then a third. Both Alaire and her prisoner were on their feet, the woman shaking in every limb, the Mexican straining his eyes into the gloom and listening intently.
I wisht I had m' thirty-thirty here I'd make him wisht his mother was a man, by golly!" Big Medicine looked toward the coulee rim. "I ain't got a shell left," he growled regretfully. "I wisht we'd thought to tell the boys to bring them rifles. Say, Slim, you crawl onto your hoss and go git 'em. It won't take more'n a minute. There'll likely be some shells in the magazines."
But say," he continued, "d'ye notice anything funny up on that cliff? Listen, now!" Hardy turned his head, and soon above the clamor of the sheep he made out the faint "Owwp! Owwwp!" of hounds. "It's Bill Johnson, isn't it?" he said, and Creede nodded significantly. "God help them pore sheepmen," he observed, "if Bill has got his thirty-thirty. Listen to 'em sing, will ye!
He clamped Turco between his knees and picked up his fore leg, while the old dog whined and licked his hands anxiously. There was a stain of blood from the shoulder down, and above it, cut neatly through the muscles, a gaping wound. "That was a thirty-thirty," said Creede grimly, and every man looked up.
Thirty-thirty was a sinister number on the range it was the calibre of a sheep-herder's carbine. "Aw, go on," scoffed Bill Lightfoot, rushing over to examine the wound. "Who could have shot him away over in Hell's Hip Pocket?" "Um that's it," observed Creede significantly. "What you goin' to do, Rufe?" "I'm going over there," answered Hardy, throwing the saddle on his horse.
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