Pickles, swallowing hard and holding one shoulder with a timidly investigating hand, blinked his dazed eyes as he looked about, inquiringly. He remembered pulling the trigger—and then the Goat had reached out thirty feet and kicked him in the neck—and if it wasn’t the Goat, who threw the rock? Dave! He sat up and then struggled to his feet, looking eagerly out to see the remains of Dave scattered carelessly over the landscape. Dave was fast getting smaller, a cloud of dust drifting to the south along his trail. "D—n it!" cried the boy, tears of vexation in his eyes. "He got away! I missed! I missed!" he shouted. "Buck lied to me! Th’ old gun ain’t no good!" and in the ecstasy of his rage he danced up and down on the discredited weapon. "Whitby’s witches ain’t no good! Nothin’s no good; an’ I missed him!" Meanwhile his injuries were not becoming easier: his head displayed a large, angry lump, and ached fit to burst; his shoulder was n’t broken, he decided, as he exercised it tentatively, but not far from it; and a piece of skin was missing from his bleeding cheek. "I ought to ’a’ got him," he muttered sullenly, picking up the rifle and moving slowly back to where his horse was picketed. "Well, anyhow, he was awful scared—I _knowed_ he was a coward! I knowed it! If this old gun was as good as its kick I _would_ ’a’ got him, too." Pickles had gauged the distance perfectly and his hand had not even quivered when he pulled the trigger—but he had yet to learn of windage and how to figure it. Dave owed his life to the wind that swept the dust of his pony’s feet southward. When Pickles had turned the horse into the pasture he reloaded the rifle before slipping it back into its long leather scabbard. It must be found as he had found it and, besides, he was plainsman enough to realize how serious it might be for Hopalong if he believed the weapon was loaded and found it empty in a crisis. "Never missed, hey?" he growled savagely as he moved away. "Huh! _Next_ time, I ’ll use _Buck’s_ gun!" CHAPTER XIX THE WEAK LINK The little buckskin pony stood with wide-planted feet and hanging head; his splendid bellows of lungs and powerful abdominal muscles sent the wind in and out of the distended nostrils in the effort to overcome the effect of that last mad burst of speed demanded of him; in his eyes alone, battling against the haze, shone his unconquerable spirit. Bearing saddle and bridle Dave strode away from him to the cabin. Straight in from Wayback, without a stop, the game little buckskin had carried Dave. Jealousy consumed him. Rumors of Smiler’s defection were floating about the town and, though no one but those intimately concerned, knew the actual agreement made, the presence of the principals and their several places of call had been noted and fully commented upon. From such premises the town’s deductions came near the truth.