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Updated: June 2, 2025
That's only a chance shot to learn where we are. They can't come behind. They have got to go down ahead " "And the fat's in the fire; for my rifle's gone with the horse," deplored the old man woefully; for mule and bronchos had galloped along the trail with the clatter of a cavalcade through the canyon.
Whitney was holding a string which was attached to the trigger; when I saw a flash, the rifle's recoil and Mr. Whitney still standing just where he was." Miller stared incredulously at Heinrich, down whose face sweat was running; the man was obviously telling the truth at least, what he believed to be the truth. "Wake up, Heinrich," he said skeptically, and the chauffeur flushed hotly.
Nerves which had been set on edge by the rifle's report, the fumes of smoke, the cries of pain and fright, were quieted first by long-drawn, melancholy notes, and then I swung into a bold trilling, more suited to my adventurous spirit, throwing back my head, extending my lips heavenward, addressing my melody to the sky.
Down would scarcely have been ruffled by Fortner's light touch upon the trigger. Fire flamed from the rifle's muzzle. The Colonel's haughty eyes became sterner than ever. The holster was torn as he wrenched the revolver out. A clutch at the mane, and he fell forward on the wet brown leaves dead!
This was what David resorted to, and, bending down, he calmly and quietly raised his forgotten rifle from the ground to his shoulder. He did it very slowly and impressively, however, in the hope that Ruth might realize the fact that he had killed the buck whose huge horns made the rifle's rest on his cabin walls.
Sir John and Guy know scarcely more of it than you. Twenty years, almost, have passed since the Valley last heard the Mohawk yell rise through the night-air above the rifle's crack, and woke in terror to see the sky red with the blaze of roof-trees. All over the world men shudder still at hearing of the things done then. Will you be a willing party to bringing these horrors again upon us?
There, just beyond your right foot, Red Coat, is a little depression, the place in the earth, from which he tore it. Black Rifle's aim was good too. He struck the wolf. At the foot of the bank there are red stains where several drops of blood fell. The wolf was full of mortification, pain and anger, when he ran away.
"I'll risk it with the dragoon revolvers," replied Banion, indicating his holsters. "Not the first time for them, either." "No? Well, maybe-so they'll do; but fer me, I want a hunk o' lead. Fer approachin' a buffler, still-huntin', the rifle's good, fer ye got time an' kin hold close. Plenty o' our men'll hunt thataway to-day, an' git meat; but fer me, give me a hunk o' lead.
The white man eased himself back to a sitting posture, resting his elbows on his knees, as all sensible good rifle shots do when they have the chance. Simba, his eyes glowing fiercely, staring with almost hypnotic intensity over his master's shoulder, quivered like an eager dog. "Hah!" he grunted as the loud spat of the bullet followed the rifle's crack.
So he took down his rifle, and fired at the squirrel, as he believed, but the squirrel paid no attention to the shot. He loaded and fired again and again, until, at the thirteenth shot, he set down his gun impatiently, and said to his boy, looking on: "'Boy, there's something wrong about this rifle. "'Rifle's all right I know it is, answered the boy; 'but where's your squirrel?
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