There was a quality in the corporal's tone to warn Preston that this was not a moment for trifling. The boy shrank backward half a pace, and his bolstered-up attitude of recklessness seemed suddenly to slip away from him. The muzzle of the rifle wavered downward; and the next instant his hands unclosed, and the weapon fell in the snow at his feet.
Dexter laughed aloud in relief. "I think I told you last fall when we met," he remarked pleasantly—"it's foolish to play with things that we don't understand."
The boy drew a short breath, and reached up unsteadily to wipe his sleeve over his moist forehead. "The rifle—it isn't loaded," he managed to gulp out. "I was just—trying to bluff."
"Eh?" Dexter regarded him sharply for an instant, and then stooped to the ground and picked up the fallen firearm.
"I ran out of cartridges several weeks ago, and—well, that's all there is to it."
"It doesn't pay to bluff in this country, unless you're ready to back it up," observed the corporal. "It's so easy to get hurt." He thrust the rifle muzzle in the snow, and with his left hand he jerked open the magazine lever, and assured himself that the weapon really held no cartridge. "I don't believe you'd have shot me anyhow, Archie," he remarked. "I honestly don't think so. Anyhow, we'll let bygones be bygones, and just forget that it happened."
During the few seconds of the swift encounter Alison had stood by, a hushed and terrified spectator. But now she moved forward suddenly to her brother's side. "Archie!" she gasped. "How did you get here? What does it mean?"
"I was looking for you," was the answer. "Just happened over this direction. Looked through the brush, and saw you coming—with the officer." The boy shook his head dejectedly. "I thought—I had hoped that I might be able to get you away from him."
"Where's Colonel Devreaux?" interrupted the corporal.
"I don't know him," said Preston. "I haven't seen anybody."