certainly didn't look much like the girl who was afraid
because something "made a funny noise." I suspected that she knew a lot
about motors.

A bullet clipped close. Beryl set her teeth into her lips, but grittily
refrained from turning to look. I breathed freer.

"Now, don't get scared," I warned, balanced myself as well as I could in
the swaying car, and sent a shot back at them.

Weaver came up to my expectations. He ducked, and the car swerved out of
the trail and went wavering spitefully across the prairie. Old King sent
another rifle-bullet my way--I must have made a fine mark, standing up
there--and he was a good shot. I was mighty glad he was getting jolted
enough to spoil his aim.

Weaver came to himself a bit and grabbed frantically for brake and
throttle and steering-wheel all at once, it looked like. He was rattled,
all right; he must have given the wheel a twist the wrong way, for their
car hit a jutting rock and went up in the air like a pitching bronco, and
old King sailed in a beautiful curve out of the tonneau.

I was glad Beryl didn't see that. I watched, not breathing, till I saw
Weaver scramble into view, and Beryl's dad get slowly to his feet and
grope about for his rifle; so I knew there would be no funeral come of it.
I fancy his language was anything but mild, though by that time we were
too far away to hear anything but the faint churning of their motor as
their wheels pawed futilely in the air.

They were harmless for the present. Their car tilted ungracefully on its
side, and, though I hadn't any quarrel with Weaver, I hoped his big
Mercedes was out of business. I put away my gun, sat down, and looked at
Beryl.

She was very white around the mouth, and her hat was hanging by one pin,
I remember; but her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon the brown trail
stretching lazily across the green of the grass-land, and she was driving
that big car like an old hand.

"Well?" her voice was clear, and anxious, and impatient.

"It's all right," I said. I took the wheel from her, got into her place,
and brought the car down to a six-mile gait. "It's all right," I repeated
triumphantly. "They're out of the race--for awhile, at least, and not
hurt, that I could see. Just plain, old-fashioned mad. Don't look like
that, Beryl!" I slowed the car more. "You're glad, aren't you? And you
_will_ marry me, dear?"

She leaned back panting a little from the strain of the last half-hour,
and did things to h