Enraged, Cimarron Jack leveled his rifle and glanced over the sights. The gun belched its smoke and fire, the chief dodged at the very moment, and the bullet razed the black feather which nodded on his painted head, and sped harmlessly on.
The guide, Sam, and Burt also fired, but their bullets were wild—the chief’s erratic and rapid motion rendered it almost impossible to strike him. Running like a deer, he speedily regained his mustang and his band, and mounting, spoke several hasty words to his clustered braves, gesticulating wildly.
The next moment they separated—one band of seven starting away toward the north, while the other, with the chief, rode west a few yards, and drawing as near as they dared, halted, facing the whites.
“Now it has come right down to business, and we’ll have to look sharp,” growled Jack.
“Why so—what is wrong?” simply inquired Louis Robidoux.
Jack glanced scornfully over him from head to foot.
“Have you any eyes in your head?” he asked, with curling lip. “If you have, just use ’em. Can’t you see they are going to make a surround?”
Under his yellow hair, the Canadian’s face flushed, and he scowled at Jack.
“Use me more respectfully, or you may rue it,” he growled.
“Dry up! You had better be a trifle more respectful yourself, or you will rue it. I am Cimarron Jack, the fellow who teaches grizzlies how to wrestle, collar-and-elbow; I am the fellow who can hold a kicking mule by the off-hind-foot with my thumb and little finger. I tell you, the man in the moon doesn’t dare to make faces at me of a still night. He knows I can shoot mighty straight, he does.”