ld up the package.

I started right up, but Scout Ward sprang ahead of me. "I'll get it. You
and Van stay behind," he bade.

He didn't wait for us to say yes, but walked for the rock; and just as
he reached it, and was stretching to take the package, the man, with a
big oath, jumped for him.

Jumped for him, and grabbed for him, sprawling out like a black cougar.
Van Sant and I yelled, sharp; Ward dodged and tripped and went rolling;
and as the man jumped for him again I shot my arrow at him. I couldn't
help it, I was so mad. The arrow was crooked, where it had been mended
(I really didn't try to hurt him), and maybe it _went_ crooked; but
anyway it hit him in the calf of the leg and stayed there. I didn't
think I had shot so hard.

The man uttered a quick word, and sat down. His face was screwed and he
glared about at us, with his pistol muzzle wavering and sweeping like a
snake's tongue. That arrow probably hurt. It hadn't gone in very far,
but it was stuck.

"I'll kill one of you for that," he snarled.

"No, you won't," answered Scout Ward, scrambling up and facing him. "If
you killed one you'd have to kill all three, and then you'd be hanged
anyway."

"You got just what was coming to you for acting so mean," added Scout
Van Sant. "You grabbed for Ward and we had to protect him."

They weren't afraid, a particle, either of them; but I was the one who
had shot the arrow, and all I could say was: "It isn't barbed. You can
pull it out."

"Yes, and I'll get blood poisonin', mebbe," snarled the man. He kept us
covered with his revolver muzzle. "You git!" he ordered.

With his other hand he worked at the arrow and pulled it out easily.
The point was red, but not very far up.

"You'd better cut your trousers open, over that wound," called Scout Van
Sant. "Did you have on colored underdrawers?"

"None o' your business," snarled the man. "You git, all of you."

"Wait a minute. Don't use that old handkerchief," spoke Scout Ward. And
away he ran for the packs. They were very busy Scouts, those two, and
right up to snuff. The arrow wound seemed to interest them. He came
back, and I saw what he had. "Here," he called; "if you'll promise not
to grab me I'll come and dress that in first-class shape. You're liable
to have an infection, from dirt."

"I'll infect _you_, if I ketch you," snarled the man, fingering his
wounded leg and dividing his glances between it and us.

"Well, if you won't promise, I'll lay this