Early one morning the broncho boys were startled out of their beds by the double explosion of a shotgun, followed by excited yells and screams of agony.
"That Chinaman has shot somebody," thought Ted, as he rapidly skipped out of bed and pulled on his trousers.
In the living room he met all the boys, as scantily clad as himself, hurrying out to see what the noise was all about.
They could hear Song behind the house screaming in Chinese at the top of his voice, and in an ear-splitting falsetto, which showed that he was tremendously excited.
Thither they rushed, and for a moment the ludicrous scene far outbalanced the seriousness of what had happened.
On the ground was a young fellow about seventeen years of age. He was writhing with pain, and the blood was oozing through his clothes in fifty places.
"Ha, ha!" shrieked Song. "Me shootee wolf, turnee into man light away. Ha, ha, me allee same plenty smart man, likee magician."
"Yes, you're a hot magician," said Bud; "You've made this feller second cousin ter a porous plaster. That's what you've done."
"Who is he, Song?" asked Ted.
"Me no savvy him. Me comee out chicken house getee eggs fo' bleakfast. I cally gun, shotee plenty wolf all samee Mliss Stella say."