After a seeming age to Dell, the required rifle range was reached, when the cronies flattened themselves in the short grass and allowed the horses to graze to their rope’s end.  Sargent indicated a sentinel buck, presenting the best shot; and using his elbow for a rest, the rifle was laid in the hollow of Dell’s upraised hand and drawn firmly to his shoulder, and a prompt report followed.  The shot went wild, throwing up a flash of dust before the band, which instantly whirled.  The horses merely threw up their heads in surprise, attracting the startled quarry, which ran up within fifty yards of the repeating rifle.  In the excitement of the moment instantly following the first shot, Dell had arisen to his knee, unmindful of the necessity of throwing another cartridge into the rifle barrel.  “Shoot!  Shoot!” whispered Sargent, as the band excitedly halted within pistol range.  Dell fingered the trigger in vain.  “Throw in a cartridge!” breathlessly suggested Sargent.  The lever clicked, followed by a shot, which tore up the sod within a few feet of the muzzle of the rifle!

The antelope were away in a flash.  Sargent rolled on the grass, laughing until the tears trickled down his cheeks, while Dell’s chagrin left him standing like a simpleton.

“I don’t believe this gun shoots true,” he ventured at last, too mortified to realize the weakness of his excuse.  “Besides, it’s too easy on the trigger.”

“No rifle shoots true during buck ague season,” answered Sargent, not daring to raise his eyes.  “When the grass comes next spring, those scars in the sod will grow over.  Lucky that neither horse was killed.  Honest, I’ll never breathe it!  Not for worlds!”

Sargent’s irony was wasted.  Dell, in a dazed way, recovered his horse, mounted, and aimlessly followed his bunkie.  On reaching their saddles, the mental fog lifted, and as if awakening from a pleasant dream, the boy dismounted.  “Did I have it?—­the buck ague?” he earnestly inquired.

“You had symptoms of it,” answered Sargent, resaddling his horse.  “Whenever a hunter tries to shoot an empty gun, or discharges one into the ground at his feet, he ought to take something for his nerves.  It’s not fatal, and I have hopes of your recovery.”

The two turned homeward.  Several times Sargent gave vent to a peal of laughter that rang out like a rifle report, but Dell failed to appreciate the humor of the situation.

“Well,” said the older one, as they dismounted at the stable, “if we have to fall back on corn beef for our Christmas dinner, I can grace it with a timely story.  And if we have a saddle of venison, it will fit the occasion just as well.”

The inner line was ridden at evening.  The cattle were caring for themselves; but on meeting the lads from headquarters, an unusual amount of banter and repartee was exchanged.

“Killed an antelope two days before you needed it,” remarked Sargent scathingly.  “Well, well!  You fellows certainly haven’t much confidence in your skill as hunters.”