He had just crawled out from beneath the wagon and was rising to his feet. An object flew by him in the half-dusk, about shoulder-high, and so swiftly that he was startled. He stepped back into a gopher-hole, tripped, and fell full length.
“What in thunder was that?” he yelled, highly excited.
“A jack-rabbit,” growled Mack. “And going some. Something scare’t that critter, sure’s you’re bawn!”
“Didn’t you ever see a jack before, Pratt?” asked Frances, her tone a little queer, he thought.
“Not so close to,” admitted the young fellow, as he scrambled to his feet. “Gracious! if he had hit me he’d have gone clear through me like a cannon-ball.”
It was only Frances who had realized the unexpected peril. She had tried to keep her voice from shaking; but Mack noticed her tone.
“What’s up, Miss?” he asked, getting to his legs, too.
“Fire!” gasped the range girl, clutching suddenly at Pratt’s arm.
“You mean smoke,” laughed Pratt. He saw her rubbing her eyes with her other hand.
But Mack had risen, facing the west. He uttered a funny little cluck in his throat and the laughing young fellow wheeled in wonder.