Morris was interested, but his position was easy, the pipe was soothing, the sun was warm, and Len’s steady tones were slumberous in their influence. The reader, therefore, presently found his listener asleep, in spite of his interest and his resolution. Seeing this he shut the book, and fell into a reverie over the strange series of circumstances that had brought him to this remote spot and outlandish surroundings, how—Crack—ping!
Morris was wide-awake. Len’s dreams had vanished. Both men were on their knees behind the breastwork, guns in hand and every sense alert.
On the opposite dump they saw all three of the jumpers sitting with guns by their sides. They were gesticulating toward the smooth, whitish panel on the cliff walk which showed where the dyke had been cut through by the ice and floods that in ages past had carved this channel in the mountain side; they seemed to be paying no attention to the Last Chance people, but were pointing as though at a target, on the face of the cliff. After a short time Scotty raised his rifle and took steady aim, apparently at the target previously pointed out. The report of his gun was followed by the sharp click of the ball against the porphyry wall, and then by its rattling among the rock on the slope of the dump in front of our sentinel friends.
“What do you suppose they’re shooting at?” muttered Len, straining his eyes to find some mark.
Morris did not reply. He was watching the enemy going through another pantomime, which looked as though Bob was explaining something wrong in the shot. This was speedily concluded by Scotty’s moving his position and aiming a third time at the face of the cliff, sighting at a little different angle than before.
Crack!—ping! went the report, and almost at the same instant a spruce log which lay just in front of Morris’s face jarred under the blow of a half-ounce of lead, which sank deeply into its tough core.
“Great Harry!” shouted the incensed miner. “They’re caroming on us!”
And before Len could interfere, Morris rose on one knee, brought his rifle to bear on the gambler, and pulled the trigger.
Scotty’s hat flew off, and he tumbled over, while Bob and Stephens let loose a volley, which rattled harmlessly against the breastwork.
But Morris’s snap shot had not gone quite true, for Scotty picked himself up almost instantly and scrambled out of range, followed by his two companions.