Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look so formidable as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys.  Still he was lithe, tough, strong.  Briskly, with a debonair manner, he stepped up and then delivered a mighty swing at the ball.  He missed.  The power and momentum of his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned upside down and spun round on his head.  The cowboys howled.  Stillwell’s stentorian laugh rolled across the mesa.  Madeline and her guests found it impossible to restrain their mirth.  And when Nels got up he cast a reproachful glance at Madeline.  His feelings were hurt.

His second attempt, not by any means so violent, resulted in as clean a miss as the first, and brought jeers from the cowboys.  Nels’s red face flamed redder.  Angrily he swung again.  The mound of sand spread over the teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few inches.  This time he had to build up the sand mound and replace the ball himself.  Stillwell stood scornfully by, and the boys addressed remarks to Nels.

“Take off them blinders,” said one.

“Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another.

“You don’t hit where you look.”

“Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.”

“Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain’t hit thet bawl.”

Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure.  Then carefully he gathered himself together, gaged distance, balanced the club, swung cautiously.  And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the ball.

“Shore it’s jest thet crooked club,” he declared.

He changed clubs and made another signal failure.  Rage suddenly possessing him, he began to swing wildly.  Always, it appeared, the illusive little ball was not where he aimed.  Stillwell hunched his huge bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth.  The cowboys leaped up and down in glee.

“You cain’t hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest.  A few more whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a realization that golf was beyond him.

Stillwell bawled:  “Oh, haw, haw, haw!  Nels, you’re—­too old—­ eyes no good!”

Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed.  Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound upon which rested the ball.  His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like a claw.

“Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell.

But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came with the action.  Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the mound.  Nels had hit it without raising tile dust.  Then he dropped the gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys.

“Mebbe my eyes ain’t so orful bad,” he said, coolly, and started to walk off.