Repeater ducked, and when his face bobbed up again it wore an expression of outraged trust, and he raised a belligerent fist and muttered profanely in hot censure of the distant experimenter. Fleming, chuckling at his friend Sanford's anxiety, raised his sombrero and waved it, seeming to regard this as ample reparation. "He's gettin' as bad as Gates," growled Sanford, eying a leaden splotch on a bowlder a foot above his head; "but he can shoot like th' hinges of h--l with that blasted Sharp's." He suddenly leaped closer to the bowlder and behind its sheltering bulge, for Fleming, having apologized, fired again. The marksman was frantically waving his sombrero, seemingly indicating a southerly direction. Sanford scowled at him. "Does he want me to go south, or does he mean that that feller is south of me?" Fleming, with no regard for the cost of Sharp's Specials, fired again and Sanford heard the slobbering, wheezing hum of a nearly spent bullet turning end over end in the air and trying to ricochet after it struck. "He's shootin' south of me," said Sanford; "an' I stays here. Somethin' tells me that th' feller that does th' movin' is goin' to die. No red-head ever made a handsome corpse, an' bein' th' red-head which I mentions, I'm goin' to stick to this hunk of granite like a tick to a cow." Johnny, hands on hips, was glaring defiance at the cheerful spendthrift, sorry that he had left his rifle behind. He regarded Fleming as a meddlesome busybody who took delight in revealing his every movement. Also, the optimist was a good shot; but he derived no satisfaction from the fact that the closest bullet had been a ricochet, for a key-holing slug makes an awful mess if it lands. "I'll bust yore neck!" quoth Johnny, shaking a fist at the persistent nuisance; and then he jumped aside as a sudden sharp _spat!_ came from the bowlder. "You can shoot near as good as Red Connors; but if he was here he'd show you what that little difference means." He raised his voice: "Hey, Repeater! Who is that fool?" Sanford laughed softly and made no answer; but he carelessly showed a shirt sleeve, and when he jerked it back under cover it needed a patch. "What th' h--l you doin'?" demanded Sanford heatedly. "Who's Red Shirt?" "Ackerman." "Then he's better with a Sharp's than a Colt." "That's a Spencer carbine." Johnny laughed derisively: "If it is he'll strain it." "It's a Winchester," chuckled Sanford. "Yo're a liar!" "Yo're another! She's a single-shot, .40-90." "Then he's changed guns. He had a Winchester repeater in Hastings. I saw it." "You'll see too much some day. You'll see a slug in yore eye." "I'm waitin'," replied Johnny, and ducked. Fleming was getting good again, and Johnny was glad that he could not see where his bullets were landing, for as it was he was shooting by guess. "He'll get you yet," encouraged Sanford. "Think I'm goin' to wait for it?" indignantly demanded Johnny. "Gimme a look at you," urged Sanford genially.