"Fine morning and fine crust for a race," he announced, and moved away a few yards, with an easy gliding movement, on the snowshoes.
"Halt, there!" called the constable firmly, reaching back to his hip pocket.
The deputy reached for his revolver, but, in his excitement, instead of aiming or firing, he hurled the weapon at the head of Mr. Fits. The pistol went by the head of the rascal, then struck the crust and skimmed on ahead of him.
"Much obliged!" called back Fits, now moving fast.
"Don't try to pick up that weapon!" shouted the constable, running as swiftly as he could over the crust. "If you do, I'll shoot."
"I reckon you'll shoot anyway," jeered Fits, making a swoop and picking up the revolver that had been thrown at him.
Constable Dock fired promptly. But Fits wheeled, a weapon now in his own hand.
Three jets of fire leaped swiftly from the muzzle of the pistol. Three sharp explosions followed, and bullets whistled back over the snow.
"Halt, there!"