"I know coyotes," she replied. "They're the worst--" She stopped short, gazing at the bleeding flanks of his pony. "Oh, Mr. Ashton! how could you? I did not think you so cruel!" "Cruel?" he repeated, twisting about to see what she meant. "Ah, you refer to the spurring. But I simply couldn't help it, you know. There was a bandit taking pot shots at me as I passed the ridge back there." "A bandit--on Dry Mesa?" she incredulously exclaimed. "Yes; he pegged at me eight or nine times." The girl smiled. "You probably heard one of the punchers shooting at a coyote." "No," he insisted, flushing under her look. "The ruffian was shooting at me. See here." He put his hand to his left hip pocket, one side of which had been torn out. From it he drew his brandy flask. "That was done by the third or fourth shot," he explained. "Do you wonder I was flat on my pony's neck and spurring as hard as I could?" The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it over with keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neat hole. Opposite it half of the other side had been burst out as if by an explosion within. She took off the silver cap, shook out the shattered glass of the inner flask, and looked again at the small hole. "A thirty-eight," she observed. "Pardon me," he replied. "I fail to--Ah, yes; thirty-eight caliber, you mean." "It is I who must ask pardon," she said in frank apology. "Your rifle is a thirty-two. I heard a number of shots, ending with the rattle of an automatic. Thought you were after another deer." He could afford to smile at the merry thrust and the flash of dimples that accompanied it. "At least it wasn't a calf this time," he replied. "Nor was it a doe. But it may have been a buck." "Indian?" she queried, with instant perception of his play on the word. "I didn't see any war plumes," he admitted. "War plumes? Oh, that _is_ a joke!" she exclaimed. She chanced to look down at the shattered flask, and her merriment vanished. "But this isn't any joke. Didn't you see the man who was shooting at you?" "Yes, after I jumped my pony down into the creek. Perhaps the bandit thought he had tumbled us both. He stood up on top the ridge, until I cut loose and made him run." "He ran?" Ashton's eyes sparkled at the remembrance, and his chest began to expand. Then he met the girl's clear, direct gaze, and answered modestly: "Well, you see, when I had got down behind the bank our positions were reversed. He was the one in full view. It's curious, though, Miss Knowles--shooting at that poor calf, under the impression it was a deer, I simply couldn't hold my rifle steady, while--" "No wonder, if it was your first deer," put in the girl. "We call it buck fever." "Yes, but wouldn't you have thought my first bandit--Why, I couldn't have aimed at him more steadily if I had been made of cast iron."