Inevitably a painted redskin lying low in the grass took a shot at the dusky form and came startlingly near hitting him. It was a critical moment, but in the brief interval Jethro recalled one of Shagbark’s reminiscences, in which he told of dodging every return bullet during a night attack by rolling aside the instant he fired his gun. The circumstances now were precisely the same as in the former instance, except the position of the contending parties was reversed: the Indians were the assailants. “It’s _dem_ dat will flop over like a buckwheat cake de minute dey fires,” reflected Jethro, “but how de mischief ken I know which way de rapscallions will turn? Mos’ folks am right-handed, and I guess dat’s de way this sarpint will flop. If I’m right I must shoot to his left, ’cause he am facing me.” It was the blindest kind of theorizing, but strange as it may seem, Jethro Mix was absolutely right in his conclusion. And the wonder of it all is that he reached it within a dozen seconds after the redskin’s bullet whizzed by his temple. Not only that, but he reasoned that the Indian would not shift his place for more than two or three feet, before reloading and trying another shot. Accordingly, having located his target by guesswork, Jethro sighted as best he could in the moonlight and pulled trigger. And he got his man, too. A cry from the grass left no doubt on that point. He had hit the redskin as fairly as Shagbark could have done had the foe been standing on his feet with the sun shining overhead. And then like a veteran, Jethro, without stirring in his tracks, began reloading his gun. Shagbark hurried forward. He was whisking from point to point, keeping the men keyed up and instructing them what to do. The shots still came from different points, but the firing was desultory and blind. The enemy hoped to hit man or animal, but there could be no certainty of doing so. “Come back hyar,” said the guide sternly; “git behind this wagon if ye don’t want to git riddled by the varmints.” “Yas, sir,” replied Jethro, suspending the reloading of his weapon and meekly obeying. “Younker, was it ye who plugged that redskin?” asked the guide. “No; it was Jeth.” “How’d ye do it?” demanded the hunter. “Ef you wants to larn how to tumble over one ob dem sarpents, Mr. Shagbark, I’ll tole you and you can try it yourself. I knowed dat de minute he pulled trigger he’d roll ober so dat when my bullet arobe he wouldn’t be dere to welcome it. So I aimed at de left side from here, and I reckons I got him.” “B’ars and beavers!” exclaimed the guide, “ye’re the only one in the party that knowed ’nough to do that. Whar did ye larn it?” “I heerd you tell how you done it once.” “Wal, wal, it gits me; ye ain’t such a big fool as ye looks to be; keep on doing that thing, but don’t let ’em cotch sight of ye, if ye can help it.”