In a few minutes they were on their way to Gunsight, but they did not reach the town without incident. They had ridden to Pine Mountain and Johnny, wishing to see if Squint's saddle had been discovered, hid Pepper in a dump of brush and scrub timber well back from the trail and, taking his rifle, crossed the beaten road at a rocky place and worked his way into the brush on the mountain side. When he had climbed about eighty feet he reached a little rock shelf and rested a moment. As he was about to go on he heard hoofbeats down the trail and he flattened himself behind a tuft of grass growing in a crack. Looking down the trail he saw a horseman round into sight from the arroyo leading from East Canyon. "Smitty," he muttered. "I don't think much of him, an' I reckon he'll scare. An' mebby if he's scared near to death a few times he'll figger he ain't wanted around here, an' hit th' trail out. Mebby I'm wrong, but here's where Mr. Smitty gets a jolt he won't forget. It will be Number One. Whether or not he gets any more will depend on how he takes this one. I'm bettin' he don't stalk me for it--here he comes, ridin' lazy an' tryin' to sing. I ought to be able to come awful close at this distance, with a rifle layin' on a rock rest." Mr. Smith, of the Bar H, rode at a walk, singing a song, the words of which should never appear in print. He had a message to deliver to the Doc and was in no hurry. His hat, a Mexican sombrero with ultra-fancy band, and a high crown, which appeared to be even higher because of the vertical dents which pushed the top into a peak, was tilted rakishly off-center and looked rather ludicrous to the man on the mountain, who noted that there appeared to be plenty of hat and horse, but very little man. When just across a short stretch of rocky trail there rang out over the rider's head a roar such as only black powder can make, and the tilted sombrero flew into the air and struck the ground. The horse and its rider heard the roar at the same instant and each acted as their instincts prompted. The horse shot forward, clearing a dozen feet in the jump, sprang back, wheeling in the air, and bolted for the arroyo it had just left, where it quickly recovered its poise and stopped to search out succulent grass tufts. Mr. Smith's instincts seemed to have come to him through generations of acrobatic ancestors, although he was not aware that any of his family tree claimed any such accomplishments, at least since they had forsaken arboreal surroundings. Certainly he never boasted, even in his maddest sprees, of being in any way gifted in acrobatics. Nevertheless, he performed a creditable exhibition when the roar smashed against his ears. As the horse leaped, he grabbed at the pommel, missed it, and in his haste to jerk his head back from the screaming lead he lost his balance. His feet left the stirrups, and then came swiftly upward as he pivoted on the saddle. They swept up past the horse's neck, kept on and described