“The sound didn’t come from below—the shooting is going on up here, somewhere. Maybe Lenning is mixed up in it.”
“We’ll mosey around and find out,” said Merry.
Another report was heard, and the two chums, laying their course by the sound, started along the top of the gulch wall. A third shot was followed by a sharp yelp, as of some animal in pain.
“Was that a dog, Chip?” queried Clancy.
“Strikes me it was,” said Merry. “This way,” he added, turning from the gulch and moving off into some low, rocky hills.
As they advanced, the boys heard voices and laughter. One of the voices they recognized as Jode Lenning’s. Presently, from behind a bit of a ridge, they looked out and discovered what was going on.
Lenning and three more of the Gold Hill crowd—fellows of about his same stamp—had tied a dog to an ironwood tree. At a distance of about fifty feet they were taking turns shooting at the poor brute—evidently seeing how close they could come without making a hit.
The dog was about as homely an animal as Merry had ever seen. His tawny hide was scarred in a dozen different places, and one eye was gone and a front leg was crooked—apparently the leg had been broken and Nature had healed it alone. There was some object tied to the dog’s tail by a section of stout twine—the lads behind the ridge could not make out exactly what the object was.
Bang! went the revolver. A flurry of dust was kicked up under the wretched brute, which almost turned a somersault at the end of the rope. Lenning and his companions laughed at the dog’s antics.
Clancy’s face went black as a thundercloud. His fists clenched and, with a muttered imprecation, he started to hurl himself around the end of the ridge. Chip caught him and held him back.