Calumet halted on the crest of the hill and waved a hand derisively at
the man, who was looking back over his shoulder as he rode.
"Slope, you locoed son-of-a-gun!" he yelled; "I didn't want to talk to
you, anyway!"
The rider's answer was a strange one. He brought his horse to a
dizzying stop, wheeled, drew a rifle from his saddle holster, raised it
to his shoulder and took a snap shot at Calumet.
The latter, however, had observed the hostile movement, and had thrown
himself out of the saddle. He struck the hard sand of the hill on all
fours and stretched out flat, his face to the ground. He heard the
bullet sing futilely past him; heard the sharp crack of the rifle, and
peered down to see the man again running his horse across the level.
Calumet drew his pistol, but saw that the distance was too great for
effective shooting, and savagely jammed the weapon back into the
holster. He was in a black rage, but was aware of the absurdity of
attempting to wage a battle in which the advantage lay entirely with
the rifle, and so, with a grim smile on his face, he watched the
progress of the man as he rode through the long grass and across the
barren stretches of the level toward the hills that rimmed the southern
horizon.
Promising himself that he would make a special effort to return the
shot, Calumet finally wheeled his pony and rode down the hill toward
the Lazy Y.
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