again to the ranchhouse. Betty had left the wagon and had
walked several steps toward him, standing rigid, shading her eyes with
her hands. Apparently she had heard the report of the rifle and was
wondering what it meant. At that instant Calumet looked over the edge
of the gully to see Taggart shoving the muzzle of his rifle around the
side of the rock. Its report mingled with the roar of Calumet's pistol.

Taggart yelled with pain and rage and flopped back out of sight, while
Calumet laid an investigating hand on his left shoulder, which felt as
though it had been seared by a red-hot iron.

He kneeled in the gully and tore the cloth away. The wound was a
slight one and he sneered at it. He made his way to the other end of
the gully, expecting that Taggart, if injured only slightly, might
again attempt a retreat, but he did not see him and came back to the
end nearest the ranchhouse. Then he saw Betty running toward him,
carrying a rifle.

At this evidence of meditated interference in his affairs a new rage
afflicted Calumet. He motioned violently for her to keep away, and
when he saw Dade run out of the house after her, also with a rifle in
hand, he motioned again. But it was evident that they took his motions
to mean that they were not to approach him in that direction, for they
changed their course and swung around toward the rocks at his rear.

Furious at their obstinacy, or lack of perception, Calumet watched
their approach with glowering glances. When they came near enough for
him to make himself heard he yelled savagely at them.

"Get out of here, you damned fools!" he said; "do you want to get hurt?"

They continued to come on in spite of this warning, but when they
reached the foot of the little slope that led to the ridge at the edge
of which was Calumet's gully, they halted, looking up at Calumet
inquiringly. The ridge towered above their heads, and so they were in
no danger, but Betty halted only for a moment and then continued to
approach until she stood on the ridge, exposed to Taggart's fire. But,
of course, Taggart would not fire at her.

"What's wrong?" she demanded of Calumet; "what were you shooting at?"

"Friend of yours," he said brusquely.

"Who?"

"Neal Taggart. We've been picnicin' all night."

Her face flooded with color, but paled instantly. Calumet thought
there was reproach in the glance she threw at him, but he did not have
time to make certain, for at the instant s