One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry to
arrive with the horses. On this occasion the cowboy was long in
coming. Neale fell asleep in the shade of some bushes and was
awakened by the thud of hoofs. He sat up to see Larry in the act of
kneeling at the brook to drink. At the same instant a dark moving
object above Larry attracted Neale's quick eye. It was an Indian
sneaking along with a gun ready to level. Quick as a flash Neale
raised his own weapon and fired. The Indian fell and lay still.
Larry's drink was rudely disturbed by plunging horses. When he had
quieted them he turned to Neale.
"So you-all was heah. Shore you scared me. What'd you shoot at?"
Neale stared and pointed. His hand shook. He felt cold, sick, hard,
yet he held the rifle ready to fire again. Larry dropped the bridles
and, pulling his gun, he climbed the bank with unusual quickness for
him. Neale saw him stand over the Indian.
"Wal, plumb center!" he called, with a new note in his usually
indolent voice. "Come heah!"
"No!" shouted Neale, violently. "Is he dead?"
"Daid! Wal, I should smile.... An' mebbe he ain't alone."
The cowboy ran down to his horse and Neale followed suit. They rode
up on the ridge to reconnoiter, but saw no moving objects.
"I reckon thet redskin was shore a-goin' to plug me," drawled Larry,
as they trotted homeward.
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