Dave ran forward, and so did all of the others. There was Pelton’s shot and all of the others’, each marked with chalk. “I know wot he did!” shouted one old frontiersman. “And so do I!” added Henry, triumphantly. “It’s been done before, too.” “What?” came in a chorus. “His bullet is on top of mine, directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.” “Can that be possible?” cried the officer in charge. “We’ll soon see.” He got out his penknife and began to dig at the hole in the middle of the target. Soon one bullet came up, and another was revealed beneath it. “Dave Morris gets the second prize, and Pelton takes third!” “And Gasway and the others get nothing,” said one of the soldiers. “Gasway, maybe you won’t blow so much after this.” “Bah! The shooting didn’t amount to much anyway!” growled Gasway, and lost no time in getting out of sight. But he never said anything more to Dave or Henry about target shooting, nor did Pelton mention the subject. After that Henry was urged to try his hand at long-distance shooting. To please his friends he complied, and made several remarkable shots, which called forth praise from Captain Ecuyer and many others. “I know of nobody who can shoot better than you,” said the commandant of the fort. “I know one man who can—the man who taught me,” answered the youth. “And who is he?” “Sam Barringford. I don’t know if he can do any better at a target, but he can best me in shooting at running game or flying birds. He is remarkably quick that way.” “But you must be able to hit a bird on the wing.” “I can generally. Once in a while I miss,” answered Henry. “But not often,” said Dave. “He is the best hunter in our family, by a good deal,” he added, warmly. “Well, you can do a little too,” said Captain Ecuyer, with a laugh. The shooting had taken place in a clearing behind Fort Pitt. The party was about to return to the fort, when a sudden shouting was heard. “What is the matter?” asked Captain Ecuyer, quickly. “Somebody is coming down the trail!” “A messenger! A messenger!” was the cry. “It is Peaceful Jones!” The report proved true; it was indeed Peaceful Jones who was coming along the trail leading from the west. He walked slowly, as if very tired or full of pain. “Let’s go to meet him!” cried Dave, and ran forward, followed by Henry and half a dozen others. It did not take them long to reach the trapper, who, as soon as he saw them, stopped short and clutched a tree for support. “What is it, Jones?” asked Henry, and then started, as did Dave, for they saw the man was very thin, as if he had suffered from a long illness. “Thank Heaven I—I am ba—back at last!” gasped Peaceful Jones. “I th—thought I’d never ma—make it!” “You are sick—you have been hurt!” burst out Dave, and helped to support him. “Yes—got shot—Bevoir’s crowd—got away—sick—lost in forest—Indians—old medicine man—got away again—come here—and now——” Peaceful Jones could not go on.