“But his eyes were on Falk all the time, following every move he made. I tell you what, my son, never you hit an Injun unawares. No matter how old or helpless he may seem, it ain’t safe. An Injun’s not out of it till he’s dead, and then it’s just as well to be careful. I know one buck that lashed the trigger of his rifle to his arm with his dying hands, and blew a hole like a railroad tunnel through the feller that tried to take his gun away from him, as well as changing the appearance of the next man behind, which was me; you can see the mark running back from my eyebrow. I’ll tell you about that skirmish sometime. It was the liveliest I ever got into. Well, the Injun’s eyes were a little bleary from age before, but they were bright enough now. I know I thought it won’t be well for you, brother Falk, if the old man gets a crack at you; but being so disgusted with the way things come out, and sick besides, I didn’t pay much attention. “The next day was prairie-chicken day. Fifteenth of August the law’s up, ain’t it? I can remember the day all right, but I’m never quite sure of the date--and all of the fellers turned out in force to reduce the visible supply of chicken; me and my friend Stevens among the rest. We got a later start than most of the boys, and it must have been ten or after before we reached McMillan’s flat, where we were going to do our shooting. We drove around here and there, but we never flushed a feather. “‘Now, Jay,’ says Stevens, ‘let’s cut for old man Simon’s shack; there is likely to be some birds in his wheat stubble.’ So off we went. We were sailing down the little sharp coulée which opens on Simon bottom when we heard a gun-shot to the right, and not far off. “‘Hello!’ says Stevens, ‘there’s a fellow in luck; we’ll give him a lift if he’s got more than he can handle.’ “‘Sounded more like a rifle to me, Steve,’ says I. “‘Well, let’s investigate anyhow--what the blazes is that?’ For just then riz up a wild howl, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ it says. “‘I could swear that that was the voice of that sweet gentleman, Mr. Falk,’ says I. ‘Tie up, and we’ll creep to the top of the bank and see what’s going on; if Falk’s in trouble, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’ We made our sneak and looked down. Beneath us was a sort of big pot-hole, say forty foot across. On one side was brother Falk, his face as serious as though he was playing a rubber with the gent that always wins, but stepping it high, wide, and frolicsome. Gee! what pigeon wings and didoes he cut! And the reason of it sat on the other side of the pot-hole watching him--Brother Ripping-Thunder, with a rifle in his hand, enjoying himself much, and smiling as good as the damaged condition of his mouth would allow. “‘Hunh!’ says he, ‘that’s plenty dance--now stand on head.’ “‘I can’t!’ says Falk, ‘I don’t know how!’ “‘Learn!’ says the Injun, ‘now good time.’