ad
his gun. Them other fellers over there are jest putterin' away, makin'
a noise. You kin see their shots strikin' down the hill there, and
everywhere, where they ain't doin' nothin'. But that feller's out for
business. I've bin tryin' to locate him. He's somewhere closter than
any o' the others. Their bullets don't quite reach, while his goes home
every time. See there."

The off-swing mule dropped this time. "Land's sakes," ejaculated the
Deacon, "he's costin' Uncle Sam $150 every time his gun cracks. It's
jest sinful to be destroyin' property that way. Shorty, kin you reach me
that gun o' Si's out o' the wagon? I believe I'll slip down toward the
bank and see if I can't find that feller. I've bin watchin' the willers
along the aidge o' the water, and I believe he's in there."

"Don't go, Pap," pleaded Si. "Some of the boys on the skirmish-line 'll
find him soon, and settle him. Don't expose yourself. Stay behind the
wagon."

"Yes, stay back under cover, Deacon," joined in Shorty. "Let the boys
down there 'tend to him. They're gittin' $16 a month for it, and don't
want nobody else to interfere in their job." Just then the near wheel
mule dropped. "Gi' me that gun at onct," said the Deacon sternly. Shorty
handed him the Springfield and its cartridge-box without another word.
The Deacon looked over the rifle, "hefted" it, and tried it at his
shoulder to get its poise, critically examined its sights by aiming at
various objects, and then wiped out its barrel, as he would that of
his trusty hunting-rifle at home. All of his old deer-hunting instincts
revived. He took out several cartridges, turned them over in his hand,
and carefully selected one, tore open the paper, poured the powder in,
removed the paper from the ball, and carefully rammed it home, struck
the butt of the gun on the ground to make sure of its priming, and put
on the cap.

"Hold her about a foot under. Pap, at 400 yards," said Si, who had
rolled over to the side of the wagon, and was watching him from under
the cover, which was raised up a little. "Put your sights up to the 400
mark, and then draw the top o' the bead down fine into that notch, and
she'll put it right where you hold her."

By this time the sharpshooter had finished up the mules on the team
ahead, and begun on that of the Deacon. The firing was furious all along
both sides of the river, and the teamsters in the rear were showing
signs of stampeding. The Wagonmaster was storming up a