Avon Burnet was in the act of lifting his Winchester from across the front of his saddle, when he made the discovery that, although the strange mustang in front of him bore no rider, yet a man was on the ground directly beyond and evidently watching every movement made by himself.

This discovery could mean but one thing: the individual was an enemy, and was on the point of making a hostile movement against him. He had undoubtedly dismounted on learning of Burnet’s approach and interposed his steed between them. Despite the gloom on every hand, Avon read aright the meaning of the almost imperceptible movement on the other side of the saddle, and he slipped from the back of his mustang with a celerity which, being displayed almost at the instant of the 239 discharge of the other weapon, looked as if it was the result of a fatal shot.

But, although the bullet so treacherously fired came near its mark, the youth was not touched. His action was in the nick of time: a second later could not have availed him.

He was incensed, as he had the best cause for being, and he resolved that the miscreant should not escape him. His rifle was snatched from its resting-place, and, stepping from behind Thunderbolt, he drew the best bead possible on his foe.

The dexterity of the latter was marvellous. It was as if, at the very instant of discharging his weapon, he had vaulted into the saddle, and, wheeling the head of his horse away, sent him scurrying straight from his intended victim.

Not only that, but, in accordance with the fashion of the frontier in such emergencies, he flung himself forward on the neck of his animal, so as to offer the least possible target to the other, who, if not hit hard, was certain to return the shot.

The curious feature of the proceeding was 240 that the man, having seen the youth vanish from the back of his steed at the instant the gun was discharged, did not assume that he was killed. Possibly such was his supposition, and his hasty flight was partly due to his anxiety to place himself beyond reach of his friends, who were likely to be drawn thither by the sound of firing. His act in throwing himself upon the neck of his mustang was simply in obedience to the rule which requires the frontiersman to avail himself of every possible means of safety, even when there is seemingly no call for it.

Despite the quickness of young Burnet, he was able to bring his Winchester to a level only at the moment the steed was thundering out of sight in the darkness, but he let fly three times in rapid succession, reckless whether he struck rider or animal; but since the sound of the hoofs still came to him, he was chagrined at the conviction that he had missed both.

“But you haven’t escaped me yet,” he muttered, swinging himself into the saddle; “there is no horse in Texas or the Indian 241 Nation that can leave me behind; now, Thunderbolt, run him down!”

But, while the fates had been kind to Avon, in that he escaped death by the narrowest conceivable chance, they seemed equally well disposed toward the object of his wrath. The boast of the pursuer as to the fleetness of his mustang was warranted, and had the circumstances continued favorable for only a few minutes, he would have brought his young rider beside the fleeing steed, where the account between the two men must have been quickly settled.

But at the very moment of starting, the forelegs of Thunderbolt sank into a hole above the knees. His activity saved him from harm, but his rider took a header over his ears, sprawling on the wet grass in front with a shock that stunned him.

By the time he could rally and remount his mustang, the other was not only beyond sight, but his listening ear could not detect the slightest sound of the flying hoofs.

“He has escaped this time,” thought Avon, as he once more resumed his place in the 242 saddle, “but the account is still open and must be settled very soon.”

He was right, except that the account was closed not only sooner than he suspected, but in a manner of which he never dreamed.

Despite his alarming experience he had not lost his reckoning, and, facing toward the bed-ground of the herd, he had ridden but a short way, when the familiar sounds told him he was near the animals from which he was lost only a short time before.

“They are here, Baby, just as I thought.” The remark was made by Gleeson, who loomed up in the gloom as he spoke, with his mustang on a deliberate walk.

“I am glad of that, and, since no one beside you and me knows of our slip last night, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

“I’ve no objection; but didn’t I hear a gun go off a few minutes ago? What was you shooting at?”

“It wasn’t I––someone shot at me.”

And thereupon Avon related the particulars of his encounter with the treacherous horseman. Gleeson listened and said nothing until 243 he had finished. Then, with a characteristic exclamation, he expressed his regret that Thunderbolt should have stumbled as he did.

“Keep your eyes open,” he added. “I’ll do the same, and we’ll get the drop on him soon.”

“Why does he want to hurt me?” asked Avon, “when there has never been a word between us?”

“It’s the nature of the animal,” was the reply. “It wouldn’t have made any difference whether it was you or me, so he thought he had a sure thing of it. That’s what he’s here for.”

It was evident from these words that each of the speakers was satisfied as to the identity of the one that had fired the well-nigh fatal shot. Gleeson named him immediately.

“I warned the cap, when he hired that Comanche, that we would have trouble with him. We left Texas a little short-handed, but we could have got through well enough without him. Howsumever, Shackaye, as 244 you remember, rode into camp one day and asked the cap to give him a job, and the cap done it.”

“I recall your words about him, and I thought they were not justified; but what made you so suspicious?”

The Texan uttered an impatient exclamation.

“In the first place he’s an Injin, and that ought to be enough. I never seen one of his race that it’s safe to trust; they’ll shoot the man that gives them a cup of water or a piece of bread. Talk about Injin gratitude! There aint any such thing.”

“What did my uncle say to your sentiments?”

“He laughed in that quiet way of his, and said maybe as I was right, but he didn’t see what we had to fear from one Injin that was in camp with us; he reckoned we could pull his teeth before he could bite enough to hurt.”

“I am sure he will think differently when he hears my story.”

“Don’t tell him or anyone else a word about it. Promise me that.”

“And why?” asked the surprised Avon.

“Well,” was the hesitating answer, “I’ve several reasons: one of them is that though you and me have fixed on the Comanche as the chap, we aint sure of it. It looks very much that way, but it may be someone else after all. We mustn’t make any mistake, and above all, don’t let Shackaye think we suspect him.”

The youth gave his promise, though in his mind there was no doubt of the identity of the man that had come so near shooting him from his mustang. He saw the wisdom of not allowing Shackaye to know that he was suspected.

The cattle having been located, the couple had little to do but to hold them where they were. This proved less difficult than at other times. They had the help of Burrell, or Old Bronze, in the work, and the three did little but ride back and forth, timing their course in such a way that they skirted the large body of animals, often meeting and exchanging greetings, but more often passing without seeming to see each other.

Sometimes one of the cattle would show a determination to dash away from the main body, but before he went far, a horseman was in front of him and he was forced back. The night was too chilly for sleeping, else one or more of the herders would have stretched out on the damp earth, with his bridle reins so interlocked with his arm that his horse could not wander off, or he would have fallen asleep in his saddle. When worn out with fatigue and loss of slumber, a cowboy often rides for miles totally unconscious of what is going on around him.