“What!” cried Mr. Bunny in hurt astonishment. “You mean you ain't with us, pardner?—after we've took you into our confidence like this... and you a western man?” “No,” said Johnny. “I never had no luck in pickin' up strange babies. Seems there's something in the way I take hold of 'em that makes 'em holler.” “And say, you call yourself a western man?” said Bunny in a tone midway between pity and contempt. “I'm awful sorry,—honest! He's been treated tough all right.” And Johnny glanced inquiringly at Bob. “And you don't put out your hand to help a fellow creature up who's down?” demanded Bunny. “Here you go wormin' your way into other folk's confidence and then you give 'em the laugh,—you're a peach of a fellow!” The glance of his shifty eyes became suddenly wicked and vindictive. “Say, you'd ought to be beat up some,—a reptile like you!” “I'm in favor of givin' Mr. Severance another chance to show there's good stuff in him, Bunny,” said Bob. “I'm in favor of offerin' him money for the job. What's a few dollars to come between a parent and his love for his child?” “What's your price, pardner?” asked Bunny. “No,” said Johnny. “If I seen a way open to help Mr. Graham I wouldn't want money for doin' him a good turn,—honest I wouldn't.” He quitted his seat. “Say, you set still!” warned Bunny menacingly. “We ain't through with you. We've took your measure, and your dimensions don't suit!” Johnny was unarmed, while Mr. Bunny wore a gun on his hip, a spare weapon he had borrowed from Graham to replace the one of which Brown had despoiled him. He half drew it, then, changing his mind, he snatched up a stick of fire-wood. Johnny backed hastily into a corner. “Shoot his feet out from under him, Bunny!” advised Bob. “I use a stick on snakes!” Bunny heaved up his club. But just here a notable interruption occurred. The door of the shack yielded to a man's hand, and swunk back plainly disclosing Brown's gaunt figure. Bob, in the exigencies of the moment, forgetting his sprained leg, sprang to his feet, while Bunny dropped his stick and reached for his gun. Indeed, the motion being made nimbly, his fingers even touched it. They did no more. There was a shot and he emitted a howl of anguish. Simultaneously with Bunny, Bob had reached for his weapon with confidence and speed, for in certain select circles he enjoyed something of a reputation as a gun-fighter; but he was no more fortunate than his friend. He was quick, but Brown was quicker. His hand traveled with the speed of light. Apparently he had no use for sights. He pointed his gun as casually as a man points his finger at an object and with the same instinctive accuracy. In this particular instance Bob was the object. “You travel!” said Brown to Johnny, who backed from the shack. Brown lingered to say a few fervent words. When he was gone, Bunny glanced at Bob, who was cursing while he nursed a shattered wrist; he himself was shot in the shoulder.