The hen, a slate-colored and maternal-appearing biddy, seemed to realize that something unusual was afoot.  She refused to be driven into the coop, perversely diving about the yard and circling the out-buildings until even Young Pete’s ambition flagged.  Out of breath he marched to the house.  Annersley’s rifle stood in the corner.  Young Pete eyed it longingly, finally picked it up and stole gingerly to the doorway.  The slate-colored hen had cooled down and was at the moment contemplating the cabin with head sideways, exceedingly suspicious and ruffled, but standing still.  Just as Young Pete drew a bead on her, the big red rooster came running to assure her that all was well—­that he would protect her; that her trepidation was unfounded.  He blustered and strutted, declaring himself Lord High Protector of the hen-yard and just about the handsomest thing in feathers—­Bloom!  Young Pete blinked, and rubbed his shoulder.  The slate-colored hen sprinted for parts unknown.  The big red rooster flopped once or twice and then gave up the ghost.  He had strutted across the firing line just as Young Pete pulled the trigger.  The cow jumped and kicked over the milk-pail.  Old Annersley came running.  But Young Pete, the lust of the chase spurring him on, had disappeared around the corner of the cabin after the hen.  He routed her out from behind the haystack, herded her swiftly across the clearing to the lean-to stable, and corralled her, so to speak, in a manger.  Just as Annersley caught up with him, Pete leveled and fired—­at close range.  What was left of the hen—­which was chiefly feathers, he gathered up and held by the remaining leg.  “I got her!” he panted.

Annersley paused to catch his breath.  “Yes—­you got her.  Gosh-A’mighty, son—­I thought you had started in to clean out the ranch!  You downed my rooster and you like to plugged me an’ that heifer there.  The bullit come singin’ along and plunked into the rain-bar’l and most scared me to death.  What in the ole scratch started you on the war-path, anyhow?”

Pete realized that he had overdone the matter slightly.  “Why, nothin’—­only you said we was to eat that hen for supper, an’ I couldn’t catch the dog-gone ole squawker, so I jest set to and plugged her.  This here gun of yourn kicks somethin’ fierce!”

“Well, I reckon you was meanin’ all right.  But Gosh-A’mighty!  You might ‘a’ killed the cow or me or somethin’!”

“Well, I got her, anyhow.  I got her plumb center.”

“Yes—­you sure did.”  And the old man took the remains of the hen from Pete and “hefted” those remains with a critical finger and thumb.  “One laig left, and a piece of the breast.”  He sighed heavily.  Young Pete stared up at him, expecting praise for his marksmanship and energy.  The old man put his hand on Pete’s shoulder.  “It’s all right this time, son.  I reckon you wasn’t meanin’ to murder that rooster.  I only got one, and—­”