"If they did I'm going to give 'em another chance. And I'm going
to do some shooting on my own account!" He had his gun in his
hand, for he had so held it since he had shattered the first
bottle, and now it was grasped in readiness for instant action.

"We're with you!" cried Nort and Dick, as they emerged from their
recumbent positions in the grass, and hastened to the side of
their cousin.

But though they looked across the valley, now half shrouded in
gloom, and up and down, as far as they could see, no one was in
sight. Here and there were small herds of their cattle. Back at
the camp tents Buck Tooth was performing his evening duties, or
"chores," as Bud called them. The Indian paid no attention to the
shooting, for he knew the boys had gone to practice, and he could
not be expected to realize that one of the shots was, possibly, a
hostile one.

I use the word "possibly" with reason, for, as yet, there was
nothing to show that it was not either an accident, or had not
been fired by some passing cowboy who, from a distance, seeing
the bottle on a stick, could not resist a chance to "take a
crack" at it. And yet this last theory would seem to be a poor
one. For if the shot had been a joke the one who had fired it
would, in all reason, it appeared, have shown himself soon after.

"No one seems to show up," remarked Nort at length, in a low
voice.