“Whatever’s right suits me,” the cattleman said.  “I can’t say more than that you are doing handsomely by me.  I reckon I’ll make that declaration to some of your help, if you don’t mind.”

The horse wrangler and the Mexican waiter were sent for, and to them the owner of the place explained what was about to occur.  Their eyes stuck out, and their chins dropped, but neither of the two had anything to say.

“We’re telling you boys so you may know it’s all right.  I proposed this thing.  If I’m shot, nobody is to blame but myself.  Understand?” Weaver drove the idea home.

The wrangler got out an automatic “Sure,” and Manuel an amazed “Si, senor,” upon which they were promptly retired from the scene.

Having prepared and tested their weapons, the parties to the difficulty repaired to the pasture.

“I’d like to try out this gun, if you don’t mind.  It’s a new proposition to me,” the cattleman said.

“Go to it,” nodded Slim, seating himself tailor-fashion on the ground and rolling a cigarette.  He was a black, bilious-tempered fellow, but this particular kind of gameness appealed to him.

Weaver glanced around, threw the rifle to his shoulder, and fired immediately.  A chicken, one hundred and fifty yards away, fell over.

“Accidents will happen,” suggested Slim.

“That accident happened through the neck, you’ll find,” Weaver retorted calmly.

“Betcher.”

Buck dropped another rooster.

“You ain’t happy unless you’re killing something of ours,” Slim grinned.  “Well, if you’re satisfied with your gun, we’ll go ahead and see how good you are on humans.”

They measured the distance, and Sanderson called:  “Are you ready?”

“I reckon,” came back the answer.

The father gave the signal—­the explosion of a revolver.  Even as it flashed, Buck doubled up like a jack rabbit and leaped for the shelter of a live oak, some thirty yards distant.  Four rifles spoke almost at the same instant, so that between the first and the last not a second intervened.  One of them cracked a second time.  But the runner did not stop until he reached the tree and dropped behind its spreading roots.

“Hunt cover, boys!” the father gave orders.  “Don’t any of you expose yourself.  We’ll have to outflank him, but we’ll take our time about it.”

He got this out in staccato jerks, the last part of it not until all were for the moment safe.  The strange thing was that Weaver had not fired once as they scurried for shelter, even though Phil’s foot had caught in a root and held him prisoner for an instant while he freed it.  But as they began circling round him carefully, he fired—­first at one of them and then at another.  His shooting was close, but not one of them was hit.  Recalling the incident of the chickens, this seemed odd.  In Slim’s phrasing, he did not seem to be so good on “humans.”