Just then a voice behind the boys put in a word: “I reckon your friend is going to wait for the hawk to drop on the chicken before he shoots. ’Twon’t carry more’n ten feet, will it?” Chet turned rather angrily. He did not mind his chum’s joking; but this stranger’s scornful remark angered him. And he was a stranger. Chet thought he had never seen the man before. The fellow wore a big black sombrero, but was not in working clothes. His boots were polished, he wore a ruffled shirt and silk tie and cuffs. His countenance was not pleasant, for his eyes were too sharp and too near together. He had his brown moustache curled and there was an odour of strong perfume about him, as though he had just been to the barber’s. “You wait a couple of minutes,” Chet Havens said sharply, “and you’ll see how far this gun carries. Providing that hawk isn’t frightened away,” he added, glancing upward. The stranger leaning on the fence immediately became very still. Dig began to grow nervous—for his friend’s sake. “Say! let me run in and get you a proper gun, Chet,” he whispered. “I know you can kill that hawk up there; but not with that dinky little thing.” “The first hawk I ever killed I brought down with this rifle,” muttered Chet. “And I bet I haven’t forgotten the trick— That way!” As the hawk suddenly swooped, Chet stepped clear of the shed. He didn’t even bring the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, but fired from the hip. There was a shriek from the bird, and with several feathers flying, the hawk sank fluttering to the ground. Digby Fordham uttered a cry of admiration. “I declare!” exclaimed the stranger, as the boys ran across the lot to secure the still fluttering bird. “I never saw a prettier shot—and him only a kid!” He was gone when Chet and Dig returned with the dead hawk between them, each carrying the bird by an outstretched pinion. “You gave me the laugh, Chet!” declared Dig, with enthusiasm. “I didn’t think you could do it. Hello! where’s that fellow gone?” The stranger had disappeared. Just then, however, Mr. Fordham rode down from the mine and the boys hurried out to show Chet’s prize and hear what news he had brought to Mr. Havens, who sat upon the front porch of the house with his wounded foot on a stool. “Everything all right at the Silent Sue, Fordham?” Mr. Havens was asking. “I’m glad to know you’re on the job. But I’m worrying about that other matter.” “About those deeds to the Crayton claim?” queried Mr. Fordham. “Yes,” said his partner. “The doctor says I shall be laid up here for three weeks. A lot may happen before I can get hold of John Morrisy. If we had somebody to send—” Dig had been prodding Chet eagerly, and whispering in his ear. The other boy dropped the hawk and drew nearer. “Can’t Digby and I go to Grub Stake for you, Father?” he asked, timidly. “It’s vacation, we’ve got good horses and know how to shoot if we need to, and I’ve heard you say yourself the trail is plain. Can’t we go?”