She ran into the house and returned with a rifle. She handed Big McTavish the powder-horn and, bracing her feet, cocked the gun.
“How far?” she asked, throwing it to her shoulder with a practiced hand.
“Sixty yards, anyway,” answered Big McTavish.
“Nigher eighty,” asserted Boy. “Too far, Gloss; you’ll miss sure.”
A gleam of mischief shone in the gray eye sighting along the brown barrel. Then the rifle cracked, and a black ball detached itself from the hickory and went swinging down to earth in tiny circles. The dog gave a low whine and came bounding forward, the squirrel in his mouth, and allowed Boy to take it from him.
“Right between the eyes,” said Boy proudly.
Big McTavish reloaded the rifle and handed it back to Gloss. His face was wrinkled in a grin of mingled surprise and admiration.
“Neither you nor me could do any better, Boy,” he said hesitatingly by way of admission.
“The one on the left next,” motioned the girl, and the rifle spoke once more.
“Missed,” gasped the man. “Can’t always make a bull’s-eye, Glossie.”