would score a hit at twenty yards after sundown. They carry high."

At that instant the sound of another shot was heard, but faintly.

"That's the hobo" announced Mr. Hennage with conviction. "Them first
three shots came from a life-size gun."

Half a minute passed; then came the report of six shots, following so
quickly upon each other that they sounded almost like a volley.

"Nine shots" commented "Borax" O'Rourke. "That's an automatic."

"That's what it is!" Mr. Hennage walked to the end of the porch. He was
just a little excited. "It's all off with the hobo" he continued. "I
know the man that's using that automatic, and he can shoot your eye out
at a hundred yards. I saw him ridin' in just as I left the eatin'
house."

"He must have been movin' to get down there in such a hurry. What's a
man on horseback doin' chasin' hobos across a web of railroad tracks,
an' if he was headed south, seems to me he'd have laid over for
supper--"

But Harley P. had a flash of inspiration now. "Come on, O'Rourke" he
shouted, and made a flying leap off the saloon porch. Borax followed,
and the two raced down the street at top speed--which, in the case of
Mr. Hennage, owing to his weight and his bow-legs, was not remarkable.
Borax easily outdistanced him.

Meanwhile, a rather spectacular panorama had been unfolding itself back