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His face worked, his breath hissed between his teeth, as with trembling hand he examined the front of his coat. A big bullet had torn through both lapels. Bill stuck his pudgy finger in the hole. "The second bullet made thet. It was from old Hiram's gun a 45-90!" "Bent an' Leslie! My God! They're shootin' to kill!" cried Buell. "I should smile," replied Herky-Jerky.

A best grade, 45-90, half-magazine Winchester it was, fitted with shot-gun stock and Lyman sights, and bearing a gleaming silver plate, on which was prettily lettered: Underneath was engraved a miniature pine, its trunk bearing three sets of initials.

"Have you any shots left for the 45-90, besides what's in the magazine?" asked Rea. "Yes, a good handful." "Well, get busy." With careful aim Jones emptied the magazine into the gray, gliding, groping mass. The same rustling, shuffling, almost silent strife ensued. "Rea, there's something uncanny about those brutes. A silent pack of wolves!" "Ho! Ho!" rolled the giant's answer through the woods.

"Shall I kill a calf?" asked Jones. "Ho! Ho! when hell freezes over if we must!" Jones found one 45-90 cartridge in all the outfit, and with that in the chamber of his rifle, once more struck south. Spruce trees began to show on the barrens and caribou trails roused hope in the hearts of the hunters. "Look in the spruces," whispered Jones, dropping the rope of his sled.

"I ain't wishin' Greaser any hard luck, but hope he carried away a couple Of 45-90 slugs somewheres in his yaller carcass." "It'd be worth a lot to the feller who can show me a way out of this mess," said Buell, mopping the beads of sweat from his face. I got up it seemed to me my mind was made up for me and walked into the light of the room. "Buell, I can show you the way," I said, quietly.

His comrades had already disappeared when he turned and sprang for the camp-door with his limp burden, but his moccasined foot kicked against something. A great hiccough which was almost a sob rose from Herb's throat. It was his one valuable possession, his 45-90 Winchester rifle, his second self, which he had rested against the log wall. "Good-by, Old Blazes!" he grunted.

They were shooting from two hundred yards but that was a dead range for the white men's guns. The buffalo-hunters asked nothing better. Their rifles were sighted to a hair. The hunters were accustomed to lie all day, on the buffalo range, and from their "stand" to leeward plant bullet after bullet of their Sharp's .50-120, Ballard .45-90, and Winchester .44-40 behind the buffalo's shoulders.

I'll trade you my share in the camp outfit and mining-gear for the dogs. And I'll throw in my six or seven ounces and the spare 45-90 with the ammunition. What d'ye say?" The three men drew apart and conferred. When they returned, Sigmund acted as spokesman. "We'll whack up fair with you, Hitchcock.

By way of reply old Hiram's rifle boomed out twice, and two heavy slugs crashed through the roof, sending down a shower of dust and bits of decayed wood. "Thet's jist to show what a 45-90 can do," remarked Bill. Bud reloaded his weapon while Bill shot several times. Herky-Jerky had his gun in hand, but contented himself with peering from different chinks between the logs.

We were having our breakfast the next morning a white arctic fox came within ten yards of our fire to look us over as though wondering what kind of animals we were. Easton and I were unarmed, but the Eskimos each carried a 45-90 Winchester rifle.